Ouroboros
by Voice of the Nephilim
Summary: The cruel, beautiful smile, the predatory violet eyes of his torturer, lover and savior, Bellatrix Lestrange, ensnared him. Even after escape she became his sole obsession. To feel her touch again Harry will tear apart the Wizarding world, stone by stone.
1. Chapter 1: The Last Light is Flickering

Ouroboros

Chapter 1: The Last Light is Flickering

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_Uncle Vernon swelled ominously. His sense of outrage seemed to outweigh even his fear of this bunch of oddballs._

_"Are you threatening me, sir? he said, so loudly that passerby actually turned to stare._

_"Yes, I am," said Mad-Eye, who seemed rather pleased that Uncle Vernon had grasped this fact so quickly._

_"And do I look like the kind of man who can be intimidated?" barked Uncle Vernon._

_"Well…" said Moody, pushing back his bowler hat to reveal his sinisterly revolving magical eye. Uncle Vernon leapt backward in horror and collided painfully with a luggage trolley. "Yes, I'd say you do, Dursley."_

_He turned away from Uncle Vernon to survey Harry. "So, Potter…give us a shout if you need us. If we don't hear from you for three days in a row, we'll send someone along…"_

_Aunt Petunia whimpered piteously. It could not have been plainer that she was thinking of what the neighbors would say if they caught sight of these people marching up the garden path._

_"Bye, then, Potter," said Moody, grasping Harry's shoulder for a moment with a gnarled hand._

_"Take care, Harry," said Lupin quietly. "Keep in touch."_

_"Harry, we'll have you away from there as soon as we can," Mrs. Weasley whispered, hugging him again._

_"We'll see you soon, mate," said Ron anxiously, shaking Harry's hand._

_"Really soon, Harry," said Hermione earnestly. "We promise."_

_Harry nodded. He somehow could not find the words to tell them what it mean to him, to see them all ranged there, on his side. Instead he smiled, raised a hand in farewell, turned around and led the way out of the station towards the sunlit street, with Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia and Dudley hurrying along in his wake._

**Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, pages 869 – 870**

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Running a hand through the thick stubble covering his cheeks, Riley suppressed another yawn, settling for a pull from his cigarette. His back pressed up against the hard concrete of the building, he exhaled a plume of light, bluish smoke. A heavy, instant developing camera hung from a strap around his neck.

Though his posture was nonchalant, his eyes, hidden by wrap-around sunglasses, saw everything, cataloguing each and every person leaving the train station. If what his friend said was correct, then – there he was!

From the train station emerged a family of four. The father, an extremely large, beefy man with a reddened face walked by, his thick mustache quivering as he muttered to himself. A tall, bony woman with an unpleasantly horse-like face walked beside him, her eyes narrowed to slits. A blond boy followed behind them, a perfect recreation of his father, wearing a look of fear and uncertainty on his features.

However, it was the boy leading the family that commanded the majority of his attention.

The boy didn't look a year over fourteen. Black, unruly hair topped a pinched face with vibrant green eyes. Carved into his forehead, partially hidden by his hair, was a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt. An odd mark, but it had made placing the kid simple. What did his friend even want him for?

Shrugging, Riley flicked away the cigarette, which had burned down to the filter. It wasn't his place to question his friend, only to act. Peeling himself away from the concrete wall, he began to trail the family, blending in among the crowd. Around the corner he followed, until the quartet arrived at a family-sized saloon.

Un-slinging the bulky camera from around his neck, Riley raised it to his narrowed right eye. Focusing the view upon the rear of the car, centered upon the license plate, he snapped off a quick picture. He quickly turned, walking back in the opposite direction. As he did, the camera spat out a still-developing picture. Re-hanging the camera around his neck, he took the photograph between his fingers, and began to shake it as he made his way towards a bank of pay phones.

Reaching the nearest free phone, he quickly dumped in a few coins, before punching a number in. As the phone rang in his ear, he waved the photograph in the air, urging the colors to form together. On the fourth ring, it was answered by an irate-sounding man.

"Detective O' Brien," a voice barked into the phone.

"Hey, it's William."

"Sergeant, where the bloody hell have you been? We've knee deep in shit over here, and we haven't heard from you in three days-"

"Look, I'm on something hot," Riley answered, cutting over the detective. "I need you to run a plate for me."

"You okay, Sarg?" O' Brien asked, the venom departing his voice, giving way to concern.

"Look, I just need this, right away."

A brief silence settled over the line, before O' Brien let out a heavy sigh.

"What is it?"

"PCZ 8809"

"Okay, got it. Hold on a minute."

Riley waiting impatiently, twirling the photograph between his fingers. His friend had insisted upon taking a picture of the license plate. Riley had a fairly good memory, and had remembered his share of license plates, but who was he to question his friend?

"Okay, I've got," O' Brien said without warning, the line coming back to life. "The car is registered to Vernon Dursley, of Number Four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. He has no priors, Sergeant. What's this about?"

Not bothering to answer, Riley dropped the phone, leaving it dangling from its silver cord as he walked away. He had the information his friend wanted, and needed to get it to him immediately.

Getting back to his car, he jumped in. Starting the engine, he pulled out into the traffic without looking. Ignoring the squeal of brakes and the blares of horns, he sped off towards his flat, paying no heed to any form of traffic control or road sign.

His car miraculously intact, he pulled up to his flat just ten minutes later. It jumped as he rolled up onto the curb, bouncing him in his seat. The underside of the car squealed as it scraped against the concrete. Not bothering to even place the car in park, Riley leapt out. He ran into the building, before running up the stairs, taking them three at a time.

Upon reaching the third floor, he ran down the hall, stopping at the fifth door on the right. The numbers '309', cast in copper, were nailed to the front of the door. He opened it, running into the flat.

The living space was a testament to bachelor apathy. Empty food containers and drained brown bottles lined the counters, while piles of rubbish dotted the floor. Further into the flat, in the living room, stood his friend. The blond man stood far away from the furniture, as if the ratty chair and couch were contagious. He was completely still, eyes staring straight ahead, not even acknowledging Riley's arrival. Framed by a thick blond mustache and goatee, his mouth was thinned to a single line, conveying great displeasure.

Luckily, Riley had just the thing to brighten his friend's day.

"I found out where-"

"Silence," his friend commanded, finally acknowledging his arrival. Obediently, Riley closed his mouth tightly, unwilling to let out any sound. The blond man was dressed oddly, in a black robe. The fabric stretched tightly across his torso, giving him the appearance of a body-builder. Moving forward, the man reached into his robes, withdrawing a long, wooden stick.

_"Legilimens!"_

Immediately, an immense pain knifed through Riley's head. As he collapsed to his knees, the events of earlier that day swam across his consciousness. It all made him want to scream, but remembering his friend's request, he kept his mouth shut.

Without warning, the pain stopped, causing Riley to rise hesitantly from the ground, his head still pounding, but grateful that the agony was over.

"He will be pleased," his friend said distantly, speaking more to himself than Riley. Shaking his head, the large man looked downward, a glare of intense dislike upon his face.

"Filthy muggle…_Avada Kedavra!"_

Immediately, a green light sprang forth from the wooden stick, rushing towards Riley. In the fraction of a second before the light struck him, Riley only had time for one final thought:

_"What's a muggle?"_

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**June 25, 1996**

The windows had been thrown wide open at the smallest bedroom in Number Four, Privet Drive. While the occasional breeze flitted across the windowsill, respite from the early-evening heat was rare.

Within, the air seemed to have a sluggish quality to it, as if the circulation itself had fallen still. His shirt tossed carelessly to the side, Harry Potter lay on his bed, his gaze focused straight at the ceiling. Beads of sweat ran down his head and body, staining the worn comforter.

Paying little attention to his own discomfort, Harry continued his study of the ceiling. Aside from the occasional trip to the bathroom, he had not moved from the bed, not even to eat. His stomach rumbled in protest of this, but the hunger pain was distant, as if belonging to someone else.

The large crack in the center was a roaring river. From it flowed several estuaries, reaching out in all directions. Most ran dry, the splits in the plaster disappearing into white. Others ran all the way to the wall, connecting the two.

He had started with forming pictures, but almost every materialized shape eventually shifted itself into a something which reminded him of his godfather. The simple arch of a crack became a stone archway. A few seconds before, he had been trading barbs with his hated cousin, and then he was…

"Gone," Harry whispered to himself.

Well, so much for not thinking about Sirius.

A soft knock upon his closed door temporarily chased away his thoughts, surprising him. It was an actual sign of respect for his privacy, an almost alien act during his tumultuous fifteen years at Privet Drive.

"Uh, come in," Harry said uncertainly, swinging his legs over the bed, moving into a seated position.

Slowly, the door opened, admitting Aunt Petunia. In the early evening gloom he could have sworn he saw a flash of pity, before it disappeared so quickly that he may have just imagined it.

"You haven't heard from Dudley, have you?" she asked, her voice regaining its normal vitriol.

Harry shook his head.

"I haven't seen him all day."

"Of course you haven't," she sniffed, before turning on her heel and exiting the room.

For a moment Harry considered lying back down, but in the wake of the conversation his stomach's rumblings had become far more persistent. With a sigh, he fished his shirt from off the floor, pulling it over his head. Keeping it off would have been more comfortable, but why give his aunt another thing to complain about?

Trudging downstairs, he made his way to the kitchen. After taking a quick inventory of the refrigerator's contents, he pulled out a few select items, enough to throw together a serviceable roast beef sandwich. Wishing to get away from the stuffiness of the kitchen, he took his sandwich out onto the patio.

The temperature was notably cooler outside, the back patio being the recipient of a light breeze. Seating himself upon one of the deckchairs, he attacked the sandwich. Though he tasted little, his dinner was gone in a few bites, leaving behind only a few scattered crumbs.

"Maybe I should start eating meals again," observed Harry without conviction, staring at his plate. Of its own accord, his gaze drifted upwards. The night sky was completely clear, giving an unblemished view of the stars above. For a few moments he lost himself in the tiny pinpricks of light.

A memory, half forgotten, cropped up as he stared at the sky. He remembered that when he went to primary school, teachers had told him that some of the starlight came from so far away, the star had already died by the time its light had reached the night sky. This thought had always appealed to a younger Harry. Even gone for thousands of years, their light still shone on.

Maybe that's how people were, too, he realized. Everyone that Harry ever talked to said wonderful things about his parents. How his mother was one of the smartest girls in her year, a practical Potions prodigy, capable of brightening a room with her smile. Harry's Quidditch skills were always being compared to his father's, and a fond smile would come onto people's faces when talking about the pranks he pulled.

Wouldn't this be how Sirius would want to be remembered? Not for his stupid, maddening end, but for all the smiles he had inspired during his lifetime? To his steadfast dedication to his godson, despite twelve hellish years locked in Azkaban?

The whispered glide of the patio door opening drew him from his musings. Glancing to the right, he saw Aunt Petunia hesitate for a moment, before sitting on another chair at the opposite end of the patio.

"Dudley's usually back by now," she said without preamble, staring straight ahead.

Turning his head, Harry looked into the kitchen. Through the immaculate window, he saw that the hour hand had almost reached ten.

She was right. This summer, it seemed that Dudley always made it home before nightfall. Harry supposed that after dealing with a Dementor, the urge to stay out late into the night faded quickly.

"Maybe he's at Piers' place," Harry offered lamely.

Petunia shook her head.

"No, Dudley is always good about calling us."

Silence stretched out following her statement, during which Harry began to grow resentful. Is this what it took for his aunt to finally be civil to him? Worry over her precious Duddikins?

Anger beginning to well up inside him, he turned his attention away from her, towards the skies above. When was the Order going to get him out of this hell-hole? It had already been three days. Were they planning on leaving him here half the summer?

The harsh ring of the telephone cut through their uneasy silence, startling Harry. At once, Petunia jumped up, and rushed towards the door, her housedress trailing slightly behind her.

"Duddikins?" she answered breathlessly, tearing the phone from its cradle.

She closed her pale blue eyes at the unheard answer, leaning back into the wall.

"Where have you been? I've been worried sick about you!"

Her eyes flew open at the response.

"Duddikin's, don't worry! Mummy's on her way."

With that, she slammed the phone down on its cradle. Moving to the kitchen table, she un-slung the strap of her purse from the kitchen chair, reaching inside.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked, stepping inside the kitchen.

"Dudley hurt his leg at the park," Petunia answered distractedly, finally extracting her car keys from the purse.

"So why didn't one of his friends get help?"

"How should I know," she irritably snapped back, opening the door. "If your Uncle comes back first, tell him I've gone to get Dudley."

Before he could get in a word edge-wise, the front door slammed shut, leaving a concerned Harry to his own devices.

Dudley was always home before dark, and never went out alone. He always had his gang of friends around. Not only was it strange that he had waited until dark to call, but why would his friends leave him alone?

Something was very wrong here.

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Hit heart rate accelerating, Harry raced upstairs, towards his bedroom. Maybe he was just being paranoid, but having been in trouble so many times, he trusted his instincts. Reaching his room, he ran through the doorway, plucking his book-bag from the floor. Unceremoniously, he dumped its contents onto the bed, scattering all his magical possessions about the comforter.

His wand he took first, placing the eleven inches of holly in his back pocket. Moving aside a few textbooks, he found a spare piece of parchment. Searching for a quill, he stopped at his eyes moved towards the corner of the room, where Hedwig's cage sat.

It was empty.

"Shite," Harry swore, dropping the parchment to the floor. Of course Hedwig was gone; she always hunted at night.

His thoughts drifted back to Moody's parting words, urging him to give a shout if he needed them. How the bloody hell was he supposed to do that? He had no owl, no way of contacting anyone…

He slapped his forehead, in an almost comical act. Surely Dumbledore must have left at least one Order member watching the house?

Running back down the stairs, he opened the front door, stepping out into the night. His shoes whispering softly on the slightly dried grass, he observed that the street was completely deserted. Not that a watching Order member would make their presence obvious, or anything.

Feeling slightly stupid, Harry began waving his hands wildly above his head, hoping to signal whichever Order member may be watching the house. After a long minute of making an ass of himself, he gave up, letting his arms fall to the side. If there had been anyone watching, they would have seen that display.

So where was the Order?

His agitation growing, he marched across the front lawn, over onto Mrs. Figg's property. Maybe she had a way to get in contact with Dumbledore.

Number Two Privet Drive was completely dark, giving Harry pause as he began to climb the short stoop. Shaking his head, he continued forward, up to the front door. He didn't like the idea of waking up Mrs. Figg, but if he was right, losing a little sleep would be an acceptable loss.

His mind made, he held his finger down on the door bell, causing a loud chime to echo throughout the house. Satisfied, he stepped back from the door, expecting a light to turn on at any second.

None was forthcoming.

Slightly frustrated, Harry pressed down on the doorbell again, holding the chime for a full thirty seconds. If that didn't wake her up, nothing would. For a full minute he waited, but there was no reaction from within the house. Hesitating for a moment, he reached his hand out towards the door, grasping the handle. He turned the handle, but the door remained stationary. Locked tight.

In deep thought, he withdrew his wand from his back pocket, leveling the tip at the door jamb. One simple spell, and he could be inside. Trapped by indecision, he glanced inside the darkened…silent home.

An involuntary shiver, independent of the weather, worked its way down Harry's body as he stepped back from the door, lowering his wand. Even if Mrs. Figg was still sleeping, the racket caused by the doorbell should have woken up at least some of her many cats.

Carefully, he pressed down on the doorbell again, listening closely. Ears straining, he heard the slight rustle of the wind as it passed through the bushes, and the chirping of crickets. No paws padding against the floor, no scratching upon the door, no meowing.

Backing away from the darkened house, his wand held firm in front of him, Harry made his way back to Number Four, Privet Drive. His head jerked rapidly as he walked, inspecting every shadow for a potential threat. With relief, he backed into the house, closing the front door behind him and locking it. Breathing heavily, he leaned back against the door, as if to further barricade it.

What the bloody hell was he going to do?

Shaking his head, he pushed himself off the door, heading towards the kitchen. He passed through it quickly, entering into the back yard. Standing upon the concrete patio, he brought down his wand, pointing it at the grass.

_"Protego."_

_"Stupefy."_

_"Expelliarmus."_

_"Petrificus totalus."_

_"Aguamenti."_

His first four spells dug into the ground, tearing up the sod, while the conjured water doused the smoldering divot.

If the Ministry came down harshly upon him, then so be it. The lack of Order presence combined with the tomb-like state of Mrs. Figg's house had unnerved him greatly. At least if the Aurors were drawn by his multiple uses of underage magic he'd have some sort of protection.

Disconsolately, he made his way back into the house, seating himself at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. How could Dumbledore have put him in this position? What good did going back to this wretched house do other than punish him?

For a moment, he considered his future. If he ran, the Ministry would be bound to find him anyway. Though, that might not be the worst thing in the world. He had an inkling that with Umbridge fallen from grace, and Fudge on the verge of being ousted, a change was coming. For all he knew, the next Minister might treat him like Fudge did before the graveyard and treat his use of under-age magic as a mere misunderstanding, as opposed to the uproar his patronus usage had caused.

Hearing the distant rumble of an engine, Harry looked up to see twin headlights pull into the driveway. Squinting in the bright glare, he jumped up from the table, hoping that Petunia and Dudley had made it back safely. Running to the front hall, he unbolted the front door and threw it open, his wand pointed forward.

"Ah!" Vernon screamed, throwing up his hands.

"Oh, great, it's you," Harry sighed, lowering his wand.

"What are you doing?" Vernon hissed, eyeing the wand uneasily, his face turning red. "Get in the house, now!"

Turning, Harry went back into the house, towards the kitchen.

"I will not have this unnaturalness in this house!" Vernon yelled, his feet pounding heavily upon the floor. "How dare y-you pull out that – that thing in front of the entire neighborhood!"

Uncle Vernon's tie was askew, and his grey suit was rumpled. His blond hair stood up in electro-statically charged bunches, which combined with his beet-red face and neck, made the man very hard to take seriously.

"Well, I don't think anyone would have been looking until you started yelling," Harry wearily pointed out, taking a seat at the kitchen table.

"Now you listen to me!" Vernon roared, banging both of his first upon the table, spilling both the salt and pepper shakers, and causing a plate to jump. "I've had a long day, and I'm in no mood for your freakishness!"

"Aren't you curious where your wife is?" Harry asked calmly, making a show of examining his fingernails.

Thought it seemed impossible, Vernon reddened further, his shade approaching an alarming shade of purple.

"What have you done with them?" his uncle managed to get out, a vein pulsing dangerously in the center of his forehead.

Harry let out a snort of disgust.

"As much as I'd like to tweak you, you'd probably believe me if I said I fed them to the Dementors."

"You did what?"

"Absolutely nothing!" Harry yelled back, exasperated. "Dudley called, said he hurt his leg at the park, and Petunia went to pick him up."

"Rubbish," Vernon spat, "I know you're lying to me!"

"Why would I bother?" Harry asked, throwing his arms in the air.

"Because Dudley called me earlier, asked me to pick him up at the Polkiss kid's house at ten-thirty."

"Wait, so what are you doing here?"

"Well, I've had a long day, and the Polkiss boy lives so far away, I thought that…"

Vernon said more, but Harry heard none of it.

They had wanted him here, by himself.

Alone.

"Look, we have to-" was all Harry got out.

Without warning, a loud detonation rang through his head as magical energy arced outside in a bright display, blinding him. Spots dancing in front of his eyes, Harry ducked down, moving into the living room.

"Harry Potter," a familiar high, cold voice rasped, coming from the front of the lawn. Dread filling every inch of his body, he looked out the window.

Clad in dark robes that swirled in the summer breeze, Voldemort stood tall. His bald, pale pate shone in the moonlight, while his mouth twisted upward, into a parody of a smile.

"I confess that my time is short, so I was not able to arrange a final goodbye, but I sincerely hope this will suffice."

Reaching into his robes, Voldemort withdrew two dark, roughly spherical objects, and tossed them casually onto the front lawn. For a moment they rolled, before coming to rest, thrown into sharp focus by the bright moonlight.

Both Petunia and Dudley Dursley had not died quickly, or painlessly, if the final expression on their faces was any indication. Both blood-rimmed mouths were stretched wide, their final screams painted permanently upon their faces. The two sets of eyes had been forcefully ripped out, leaving behind only hollow, crimson sockets.

"Not to worry though," Voldemort continued, withdrawing his yew wand. "You'll have ample opportunity to catch up with them soon enough."

His final threat delivered, he began to approach the house, wand raised.

Vernon Dursley's visibly withered, seeming to draw into itself as his wife and child's heads rolled to a stop. Frozen in place, he let out a single choked sob.

"We have to move!" Harry insisted, tugging upon Vernon's meaty forearm. At once, burning rage lit in his eyes. With a snarl, his uncle swung out his arm, knocking Harry aside. His legs struck a low footstool, sending him tumbling to the hardwood floor. Turning over, he saw his uncle run out of the living room, and up the stairs.

Without warning, the front door was ripped free of its hinges. At once Voldemort strode through, wand held in front of him. Ignoring Vernon, he turned left, entering the living room, bringing his wand down in a high arc.

Reaching to the side, Harry tossed a pillow from the couch into the path of the grey spell, detonating it in a flurry of down feathers. Temporarily obscuring the two combatants, Harry backed into the kitchen, colliding with the kitchen table. Without thinking, he grabbed the plate from the table, still covered with the crumbs from his sandwich, and whipped it at Voldemort.

With a high, cold laugh, Voldemort stopped the flying projectile in mid-air, holding it in place.

"Really, Harry?" he mocked, before flicking his wand. At once, the white place rushed back towards Harry. Instinctively, he ducked, narrowly avoiding the flying plate. It broke through the glass patio door, the almighty crash echoing in Harry's ears as he rose, wand drawn.

_"Expelliarmus!"_

The spell cast, he sidestepped to the left, out of sight. Backing up, he saw his crimson spell fly back from the living room, striking the wall. Turning upon his heel, Harry fled down the hallway, only to stop short in his tracks.

A pale Vernon Dursley stood at the end of the hall, facing Harry. His lips were pulled back into a snarl, while a vein pulsed dangerously in the center of his forehead. Clasped tightly in both hands, the barrel pointed firmly at Harry, was a six-shot revolver, big enough to hunt elephants.

Harry immediately dropped to the floor, hands over his head. To his surprise, Vernon kept the barrel steady.

Without preamble, he began to squeeze off shots. Each one was like a thunderclap, the recoil driving Vernon's arms upwards. Nearly deaf, he turned his head, to see Voldemort, wand raised. Each round fired floated in mid-air, almost casually. With a cruel smile, Voldemort began to lower his wand.

Thinking quickly, Harry thrust his wand forward.

_"Claudeo!"_

Keeping low, he saw the blue jinx strike his uncle in the knees. At once, he fell awkwardly into the wall, dropping the gun. No sooner had he struck the ground had the bullets reversed direction, slamming into the wall framing the front door, putting fist-sized holes in the plaster. Leaping up, Harry began to pull his uncle towards the door, but Vernon shoved him aside, reaching for the gun.

"Impressive, but ultimately futile," Voldemort mocked, raising his wand. At once, the gun rose into the air, just outside Vernon's reach. As if pulled by strings, the gun floated towards his uncle, before the barrel pressed into the flesh of his forehead. Harry started to bring his wand down, but before he could, the trigger depressed.

The high-caliber round disintegrated Vernon's head in a crimson spray, painting the floor behind him with a fan of blood, brain and bone fragments. The impact threw the body back, slamming it into the floor with a sickening thud.

His eyes wide with terror, Harry backed away from his deceased uncle, panic clawing at him. Turning, he began to run up the stairs.

"Where are you going, Harry? Not upstairs to hide, I hope."

Voldemort's words ringing in his ears, Harry sprinted up the stairs. One step from the top, an unseen presence coiled around his ankle, holding him in place. Blindly, Harry swung his wand backwards.

_"Reducto!"_

His curse slammed into the wall next to Voldemort, detonating it in a rain of sheetrock fragments and splinters. Voldemort's quickly conjured shield completely deflected the shrapnel, but Harry felt the coil around his ankle disappear.

Freed from the invisible force, he sprinted down the hallway, lowering his shoulder into the bedroom door. It flew open, allowing Harry to stumble inside. Slamming the door shut, he pointed his wand at the bureau.

_"Wingardium Leviosa!"_

At once, the heavy piece of furniture lifted into the air. Swinging his wand to the right, he directed the bureau to the doorway, barricading it shut. It wouldn't buy him much time, but a few extra seconds was all he needed.

Flinging the closet door open, Harry withdrew his Firebolt. Running to the window, he mounted the broom. As he did, an explosion tore through the small bedroom. Without looking, Harry rocketed through the small window. Clearing it, he looked back, to see the bureau smash through the wall, ripping a large hole in the front of the house.

Turning back towards the tip of his broom, Harry flattened himself against the shaft, willing it to go faster. As it began to pull away, a crack ripped through the air as the Firebolt snapped in two.

Terror spreading across his brain, he couldn't even scream as he plummeted from the sky, each hand clutching a half of the broken broom.

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Harry hit the ground feet first, both legs breaking with twin sickening cracks, his momentum pitching him forward. His chin struck the dark asphalt, breaking his jaw with a wet snap. The second impact jarred him loose of his paralysis and he tried to let out a gargled scream of agony, but his breath hitched, trapped behind his splintered teeth.

Without thinking, he rolled over, eliciting a far more potent wave of white-hot pain. Raising his head, his eyes widened for a moment at the angle of his legs before he turned his head to the side, violently emptying the contents of his stomach through the aperture of his broken mouth.

His lower body was a complete ruin. The skin covering his knees and calves had been roughly split open, pieces and fragments of crimson-stained bone sticking randomly through. At the sight, his vision began to waver, and the world began to fade away. With a quick shake of his head, however, he struggled against oblivion. He couldn't pass out, not now!

Pieces of roast beef sandwich stuck between his ruined teeth, he vainly attempted to block out the pain, before forcing himself into a sitting position. Struggling to stay up, a high, cold laughter filled the air. Raising his head up, he saw Voldemort stride forward, wand held loosely, almost casually.

"One must admire such tenacity, Potter, even though it hasn't gotten you very far tonight."

Summoning forth the last vestiges of his strength, Harry reached down, pulling his wand from his pocket.

"We'll have none of that _Priori Incantatem _nonsense tonight," Voldemort said coldly, whipping his wand forward.

Before Harry could react, the red spell struck him in the chest. At once Harry's wand was jarred loose and he went tumbling backwards, the asphalt grating his legs and pulling at the exposed bone. Coming to rest in a ragged tangle, hot tears began to spill down his cheeks.

Voldemort, casually twirling Harry's holly wand between his fingers, walked forward, his crimson eyes alight with mirth.

"Just fucking kill me!" Harry screamed.

He had lost. There was no way he was getting out of this one. No two-way portkeys, no arcane protections, no Dumbledore to save him... nothing standing between him and the Dark Lord.

A wide smile stretched across Voldemort's visage.

"Come now, Harry," he rasped, his voice dropping an octave. "No one 'truly' begs for death. Your eyes betray the same fear I've seen in hundreds'. The same fear, the same ignorance. You don't want death, Potter, and it's arrogant to think you do."

At Voldemort's words, a blazing defiance lit with Harry. Maybe Voldemort was going to kill him, but whatever Riddle planned to do, Harry wouldn't make it easy. Every step of the way, he would fight, never giving a single inch.

Rolling onto his stomach, Harry began to pull himself forward. The contact with the ground set his nerves alight, but he continued on, transferring the pain into screams, splitting his throat.

Without warning, an unseen weight pressed into the center of his back, pinning him roughly in place. He tried to push upwards against it, but his meager strength couldn't overcome the force.

"You clearly have no grasp of the concept of defeat," Voldemort observed, pressing his boot harder into Harry's back.

At that moment, a deafening crack rang out through the night as Albus Dumbledore appeared in a swirl of purple and turquoise robes. His normally kind features were drawn tightly, his bright blue eyes agleam with fury.

"Let him go, Tom," Dumbledore commanded, wand held high. Harry hardly dared to hope, but unbidden, it bloomed within his heart, like a flame unto darkness.

"I think not," Voldemort replied, his tone triumphant. "You should have taken better care of your savior."

Dumbledore began to swing his wand in a wide act, but Voldemort merely let out a cold chuckle.

"Activate."

At once, both Harry and Voldemort were jerked backwards, as if pulled by a giant, invisible hook. Through the churning vortex he was pulled, his vision growing dim. Before passing out, his last thought was of Dumbledore's face in the fraction of a second before Voldemort had activated the Portkey.

It was one of misery, of failure, but most of all, of immeasurable hopelessness...

Even Dumbledore knew Harry would never escape.

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Author Notes:

This will be a novel length Dark Arts story, which will slowly work towards a Harry/Bellatrix pairing. Expect nothing in the way of romance, however.

This first chapter is the brightest this story will get. If it turns out how I envision, it will be one of the most depraved entries into the Dark Arts this site has ever seen. Gratuitous violence, rape and a great deal of canon deaths will be only the start. Consider yourself forewarned for future installments.

The rate of update for this story will be very slow. This is more of a distraction, a way to vent frustration between 'Sitra Ahra' and 'The Unforgiving Minute'.

Chapter one of this story was submitted for the DLP February Dark Arts contest. It placed third. Congratulations to Silens Cursor and Grinning Lizard for their well-deserved finishes ahead of me.

A great many thanks to Grinning Lizard for his help with this chapter.

DLP Thanks:

Silens Cursor, Andromalius, shinysavage, dhulli, Portus, sirius009, knight504, Republic21, Socialist, Insane Juggler


	2. Chapter 2: The Last Light is Dying

Ouroboros

Chapter 2: The Last Light is Dying

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The weight of every one of his one-hundred-fifteen years on this planet weighing down heavily on him, Dumbledore walked towards the ruins of Privet Drive. His gait was the slow, frail one of an old man, so unlike the near youthful exuberance he was known for.

For one of the few times in his life, he had had been blindsided.

Loss was a familiar foe for Albus Dumbledore, starting at an early age, when he had lost both of his parents and his sister. Leading the fight against Voldemort during the Wizarding War had been no easier. The deaths of friends and colleagues had become a weekly occurrence.

The students were even worse. The children he had influenced and presided over as Headmaster of Hogwarts for seven years had become soldiers. Nearly half of the students he had recruited were lost before the war came to its sudden end.

Slowly he walked across the lawn. A ruined, splintered dresser lay in the garden, while shards of broken glass were sprinkled not only over the grass, but in the hair of Petunia and Dudley Dursley, their heads strewn carelessly.

The last fading remnants of Lily's blood had run dry.

The door to the neat home had been completely torn away. Just inside the doorway, a fan of drying blood and brains oozed on the floor. The heavy-set form of Vernon Dursley was slumped just before it, everything from the neck-up hopelessly mangled. A large blood-flecked revolver lay on the ground nearby.

Despite Harry's clear grief in the wake of Sirius' death, he, Albus Dumbledore, had sent him back to Privet Drive, had sentenced him to this cruel fate. So confident had he been in the blood wards that he had not considered the fact that, with the prophecy gone, Voldemort might turn his attentions to other matters.

Stepping further into the house, Dumbledore found that the ground floor had become a battleground of sorts, the path of destruction winding its way through the entire home. Staring at the broken glass of the patio door, it was clear that Harry had never stopped fighting Voldemort, had resisted with every fiber of being, a claim many older, far more experienced witches and wizards couldn't make.

The cool night air filling the kitchen, a rustling of wings caught Dumbledore's attention. A moment later an owl dove down from the sky, swooping into the kitchen. It dropped a letter on the kitchen table, before gracefully turning and soaring out of the kitchen.

With long, nimble fingers Dumbledore undid the envelope, withdrawing a single piece of parchment from it and began to read.

_Dear Mister Potter_

_We have received intelligence that you performed multiple charms and spells at twenty-one minutes past ten this evening in a Muggle inhabited area and in the presence of a Muggle. _

_The severity of this breach of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, your third offense, has resulted in an inquiry being filed in order to determine the cause of your actions. _

_Ministry representatives will be calling at your place of residence to bring you to the Ministry for questioning. While you have already received multiple warnings under Section 13 of the International Confederation of Warlocks' Statue of Secrecy, the Ministry acknowledges that there may have been mitigating circumstances, which will be determined during questioning. _

_Hoping you are well,_

_Mafalda Hopkirk_

_Improper Use of Magic Office_

_Ministry of Magic_

Dumbledore's lips tightened into a thin line upon finishing the letter. Minister Cornelius Fudge had insisted upon meeting with Harry following the incident at the Department of Mysteries, but Dumbledore had not been willing to allow it.

Glancing into the backyard, the Headmaster saw the blackened grass, where Harry had deliberately cast spells into the ground. Unable to reach Mrs. Figg, he had been willing to bring the Ministry here, anyone who could help him.

There truly had been no one.

Arabella Figg, along with all of her cats, were missing. Tonks and Remus, the two members of the Order he had tasked with watching over the house for the night, were nowhere to be found. No, Harry had been effectively cut off from the Wizarding world, with no way to contact anyone. 

Putting his hands over his face, Dumbledore collapsed into one of the nearby patio chairs. He allowed himself a single minute of grief, to allow the unshed tears to fall from his eyes. He had failed Harry in every conceivable way. In all probability, no one would ever see Harry again.

After a minute had passed, Dumbledore rose swiftly from the plastic chair. Drying the tear-tracks from his eyes, he glanced once more towards the house, before disapparating with a small pop.

He may have failed Harry, but if the boy was to have any chance, it would require that Dumbledore move quickly and decisively.

The last light, the last hope for Britain was dying, but had not yet been extinguished.

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Slowly, Harry rose from the depths of slumber. He began to open his eyes, but closed them again as the light met his dilated pupils. Instead, he stretched his arms and legs as far as he could, trying to expel the sluggishness from them. There was no weight upon him, oddly, so he must have fallen asleep atop the –

With a start, his last memories came rushing back, causing his eyes to fly open. Oblivious to the torchlight, he leapt from the bed and landed on a hard surface, his vivid green eyes scanning the immediate area.

The small room was empty.

Visions of waiting Death Eaters looming in his mind, he took a hesitant step forward. To his surprise, there was only mild discomfort in his knees, a far cry from the agony he had felt after falling from the sky. With increased confidence in his gait, he crept across the room, to the large oak door on the opposite end. The silver knob turned beneath his hand, but the door wouldn't budge, not even an inch. Was it magically locked?

If it was, he was screwed, as his wand was nowhere to be seen. Raising his hand, preparing to rain blows down upon the door, he hesitated. Did he really want to draw attention to himself?

Lowering his balled fist, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning, he saw a brief blur of movement in an ornate portrait frame, gone too quickly to identify.

"Who's there?" Harry asked, but the empty canvas had nothing to say. For a moment, he considered how Phineas Nigellus could travel between different portraits. Was the same thing going on here, the magical world's answer to the security camera?

Keeping a careful eye upon the portrait, he began to explore the small, opulent bedroom. The dresser drawers were empty, but he did find a collection of robes hanging in the closet. Pulling out a set of plain navy robes, he quickly pulled them on, if only to protect his modesty.

There was little else of interest in the room. With no windows, the door seemed to be the only way in and out. There was a small, unlit fireplace, but the bore was far too small to even consider trying to climb out. Angrily brushing the ashes from his robes, he began to rapidly pace back and forth across the small room. Panic beginning to claw at his mind, he forced himself to stand still, and think through the situation.

Harry had no idea how Voldemort had found Privet Drive, but guiltily, he realized that the only reason Petunia and Dudley had been killed was to collapse the blood wards.

"So fucking stupid," he whispered to himself, angrily. Voldemort's existence had just been revealed to the world; was sending Harry to live with muggles the best Dumbledore could do? And if it was, where the hell had the Order been? Even if Voldemort had killed Mrs. Figg, shouldn't there have been someone else watching? Someone who could actually fight, maybe?

Swearing again, Harry brought his fist down upon the deep purple blanket which covered the bed. At once, Dumbledore's final, haunted look rose in his mind, an image he'd never forget. If it hadn't already been obvious, that expression made it abundantly clear that he was beyond the Order's help.

"It's just you now, Harry," he whispered to himself. "You can't depend on anyone else. Think…how bad are things right now?"

His first thought was that things were really fucking bad, being kidnapped by Voldemort and all, but…his legs had been healed. If Voldemort had just wanted to kill him, he wouldn't have bothered to fix him. Did Voldemort need him alive for some reason?

For what though? Racking his mind, Harry couldn't think of any reason. And why now? Couldn't Voldemort have done the same exact thing after his resurrection? Why wait until over a year later?

Quickly coming to the conclusion he didn't really have any way of pin-pointing Voldemort's motives, he began to take inventory of the situation. There were no windows in the room. What type of bedroom isn't built with windows? It could be underground…

Shaking his head, Harry dismissed the idea. The small bedroom was too carefully decorated, as if it was designed to impress. No, it was most likely a guest bedroom…maybe in some Death Eater's Manor? If the home was big enough, then it was conceivable that not all of the rooms would be placed around the exterior of the building, and thus might not have a window. Malfoy Manor, maybe?

With a shrug, he dismissed the thought, as there didn't seem to be anything in the room to give away its location. He knew so little about the wizarding world, there were probably plenty of other rich, prominent pureblooded families with large mansions for Voldemort to hide in.

Spying movement, he turned, hoping to catch the occupant of the portrait, but saw nothing.

"Um, hello," Harry said, hoping for some sort of response. Silence was his only reply, so heavy it almost seemed to mock him. Frustrated, he laid his arm upon the stone mantle, thinking of what to do. His gaze trailing down, the fireplace tools entered his view. Inspiration striking, he grabbed the poker from the rack, rushing up to the door. Swinging as hard as he could, the iron poker simply bounced off the door. A hollow gong reverberated through the room as the concussion rattled his teeth in their sockets. A hiss of pain escaped his lips as he dropped the poker.

Angrily kicking aside the poker, he went back to the fireplace, grabbing the ash shovel from the rack. Going back to the door, he stuck the spade into the jam of the door, attempting to pry it open. It moved a fraction of an inch. Encouraged, he shoved the tool deeper into the door, and pulled.

The wood splintered under the greater force and the rod pulled free, sending him tumbling to the floor.

"Fucking hell!" Harry exclaimed, throwing the ash shovel across the room. It crashed into a ceramic lamp, shattering it in a spray of white porcelain chips.

"Must you break everything?" a haughty voice asked. Jumping to his feet, he saw that a face had filled one of the portraits. With its sharp, aristocratic features, cruel grey eyes and long, immaculate silver hair, it quickly became clear where he was.

"Malfoy!"

"One of them, anyway," the man dryly replied. "While you are indeed free to continue destroying this room, it would serve little purpose."

"Not if it gets me out," Harry challenged.

"Oh, yes," the Malfoy ancestor responded mockingly. "Lord Voldemort locked you in a room, and conveniently provided you the means to escape. Please, don't let me interrupt your break-out."

"Bloody hell," Harry moaned, despair washing over him. How stupid he had been, to think there was any possibility of forcing his way out.

"I would advise you to freshen up," the portrait drawled, "As you'll soon be having a visitor."

"What?"

Choosing not to answer, the man fled from sight, leaving behind blank canvas. Though stung by the portrait's words, he remembered the promise he made, when he had been certain Voldemort would kill him.

He didn't into to make anything easy for Voldemort.

Rushing across the room, he snatched the poker from the floor, before positioning himself to the left of the door. Most likely, Voldemort would send one of his underlings to fetch him. Maybe he didn't have a chance, but there was no way in hell he was going to sit around and just wait for the end.

His arm cocked back, his heart thumping wildly in his chest, he didn't have long to wait. The unmistakable sounds of boots hitting the marble floor met his ears, drawing closer to the door.

"Where is he?"

The familiar, nasal voice of Draco Malfoy was easily recognizable through the sturdy ironwood.

"Right outside the doorway," the portrait answered, prompting Harry's eyes to widen in shock.

"What?" the portrait sneered, "Did you really think I would allow my grandson to be harmed?"

"Real clever, Potter," Draco snorted through the door. Thinking quickly, Harry ripped the purple blanket off the bed, and threw it over the gold-framed portrait. Malfoy's grandfather tried to yell a warning, but the thick cloth effectively muffled the words.

"_Alohomora!"_

Harry quickly ducked behind the bed, hiding himself completely. The moment he was out of sight, the door slammed open, banging loudly off the wall.

"_Petrificus totalus!"_

He heard the spell collide harmlessly with the wall.

"Where is he?" Draco demanded as Harry launched himself up. Draco's eyes widened for a moment before he swung his wand, training it on Harry. As Draco began to fire-off another body-bind, Harry flung the iron poker. Like a javelin it flew, the tip striking the Malfoy heir in the knee. The strike elicited a howl of pain, prompting Draco to jump up on one leg. Darting forward, Harry charged the other teen, lowering a shoulder into him, tackling him to the ground and sending his wand flying.

Harry jumped up and sprinted towards the wand, but Draco swung out with his good leg, catching him around the ankles and sending Harry tumbling into the blanket-draped portrait. Disentangling himself from the purple fabric, Harry went to dive after the wand once more, only to feel something yanking at his robes. Turning, he saw that Draco had gotten a hold of his robes. Rearing back, Harry launched a foot directly into the center of Malfoy's rage reddened face, breaking his nose with a wet crack. The grip immediately loosening, Harry dove atop the wand and wrapped his fingers around the handle. Jumping to his feet, he rounded on Draco, wand aimed at his heart.

"You don't know what you're doing," Draco hissed, his blonde hair mussed, his crooked nose dripping blood down his face.

"Yes I do," Harry boldly answered. "I'm getting the bloody hell out of here, and you're going to help me."

"You don't understand-" Draco pleaded, but Harry cut him off.

"If you don't help me-"

Harry was abruptly interupted as his body went stiff as a board, his arms involuntarily snapping to his sides. Helpless, he tumbled backwards, his body striking the floor heavily. His eyes, the only things still free, moved towards the portrait, where Malfoy's grandfather was stowing a maple wand within his expensive-looking robes.

"Thanks, Abraxas," Draco said quietly, snuffling blood through his nose. He bent down, plucking his wand from Harry's frozen fingers.

"Lord Voldemort was correct," Abraxas Malfoy began, his casual usage of the Dark Lord's name causing Draco to pale slightly. "This Harry Potter is every bit as deceiving as described."

"He's nothing," the younger Malfoy spat balefully.

"Really?" Abraxas drawled, "because I believe I just saw him best you without a wand."

Immediately, Draco's cheeks began to fill with color, his eyes cast downward as he muttered to himself.

"Draco, you can no longer afford to act as a child would, but as a proper Malfoy. You underestimated an opponent, and lost. One can never assume victory, as overconfidence has been the fall of many a great wizard. Do I make myself clear?"

"…Yes sir."

"Good. Then see to it that Potter is delivered without any further incident. Lord Voldemort's patience is not to be tested."

With a nod, Draco pointed his wand at Harry.

"_Mobilicorpus."_

At once, Harry rose into the air, and was floated towards the open door.

"Draco," Abraxas admonished, "Do take care to clean the blood off your face, and to hide that limp. I imagine that freshening up would placate our uninvited guest."

"Yes, sir," Draco answered automatically, before cleansing the blood from his face with a quick spell. That done, he began to float Harry down the hall.

His limited view angled straight towards the ceiling, all he could see were the high stone walls, made from dark granite blocks, stretching up about fifteen feet. Archways curved above between the two sides of the hall, between which indecipherable etchings were carved into the ceiling, inlaid with gold.

Draco was silent as he directed Harry down the hallway, his visage deathly pale. Passing through a set of double doors, he was led into a large chamber. The vast space above him stretched perhaps fifty feet, with wide buttresses flanking long alcoves. Within stood murals constructed from stained glass, each depicting vivid landscapes. The buttresses curved into long archways, which arced onto the ceiling, stopping short of a circular cutout in the ceiling, perhaps twenty feet wide. Its point of origin unseen, a thick chain hung from the cutout, supporting the largest chandelier Harry had even seen, seemingly constructed from thousands of burning candles.

Taking in all that he could, Harry was lowered down what seemed like a spiral stairway. He strained against the confines of the body-bind, but still he remained helpless as Draco floated Harry through another set of double doors, constructed from a dark ironwood.

"At last, our esteemed guest has awoken," a high, cold voice rang out, the sound raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

It was Voldemort.

"Draco, is that any way to treat a guest?" admonished Voldemort, his tone mocking, playful. "I would think a visitor in your esteemed home would be deserving of better. Release him."

With a quick whispered incantation from the Malfoy heir, Harry regained the movement in his limbs. As he crashed to the floor, Draco backed away from him, his wand held tightly. Jumping to his feet, he saw that he was in a large dining room. Illumination was provided by bronze braziers upon the wall, their yellow light reflected by the polished surface of the mahogany dining table.

At the head of the table, Voldemort rose from his seat, his paper-thin lips stretched into a smile, his arms thrown wide.

"Welcome to the illustrious Malfoy Manor," he welcomed, before motioning towards the chair at the opposite end of the table with a large white hand. "Please, sit, dinner is almost ready to be served."

Though the white face, with its flat, snake-like nose and gleaming crimson eyes were still the things nightmares were made of, he was even more thrown off by Voldemort's accommodating demeanor. What the fuck was going on?

"Leave us," Voldemort ordered, turning his head towards Draco. The blonde boy jumped at being addressed so suddenly, before slinking from the room, unable to completely hide his relief. Once Draco had shut the door quietly behind him, the Dark Lord turned his scarlet gaze back upon Harry.

"Are you not hungry, Harry? Rest assured, you will not find finer fare in all of Britain."

Truth be told, upon mention of food, his stomach had begun to growl disconsolately, but he ignored it. Despite Voldemort's strange behavior, Harry was not here on a social call, and had no intention of returning kindness to the man who murdered his parents.

"What do you want?" Harry asked firmly, remembering the vow he had made to himself.

As soon as the words left his mouth, platters of food appeared on the table. Sizzling skewers of steak, chicken and pork; a wide spectrum of steamed vegetables; giant boats of dark gravy; roasted and mashed potatoes; a seemingly endless variety of breads.

Each and every one caused Harry's stomach to lurch, but he forcefully turned his attention back to Voldemort, who wore a slight, knowing smirk upon his grotesque face.

"Why, I want precisely what you denied me in the Department of Mysteries, of course. I want the prophecy."

"Then why don't you rip it from my mind?" Harry boldly challenged, attempting to betray none of the terror he felt.

"Because I am accustomed to getting what I want without question," Voldemort replied, as if explaining a simple concept to a child. "You will recite it to me."

"And if I don't know it?"

Voldemort let out a high, mocking laugh, like the gasp of a man dying from emphysema.

"Who do you think you are fooling, Harry? Though you clearly were not aware of the prophecy before our rendezvous at the Ministry, I have no doubt that Dumbledore has revealed it to you in the interim."

Harry kept his face impassive, trying to give no sign of how close to the heart of the matter the Dark Lord had penetrated. How little bargaining power did he truly have?

"Regardless," Voldemort continued, "Were you to give me the prophecy now, your lack of cooperation in the past could be excused for ignorance, if I were so inclined. As all of my loyal servants are aware, Lord Voldemort rewards his followers for their faithful service."

"I'll never follow you," Harry hissed.

Rather than being angered, Voldemort seemed to draw amusement from his declaration.

"Perhaps," he wryly conceded, "But still that fact remains that as much as I reward those who aid me…those who stand in my way must be punished in equal measure."

The Dark Lord let the words linger in the air for a moment, before moving closer to Harry, all pretense of good cheer evaporating.

"Listen to my words carefully, Potter," Voldemort warned, his voice dropping an octave, "So that you may not mistake them. If nothing else, you are a survivor at heart, a fact which has become painfully clear to me over the course of our brief history. Let me assure you, then, you hold no hope of escape, so purge it from your mind, and let it not taint your decision."

His scarlet eyes blazing with intensity, gazing down at him, Harry took an unconscious step back, all traces of bravado fleeing.

"Your sole hope of salvation lies with me."

Harry wanted to speak, to say something cutting, anything to throw Voldemort off, but all he felt was hopelessness, the truth of his words striking home with every syllable. Taking another step backward, he remained silent, incapable of a response.

"If you cooperate," continued Voldemort, "I will spare your life. You will not be free, but will be allowed to live in the relative comfort that Malfoy Manor provides. All your needs will be attended to until the Ministry falls and Dumbledore is dead, after which you will be free to leave."

"Y-you'd never let me live."

Voldemort shook his head a single time.

"You are wrong. When I heard of the prophecy, it seemed clear that you would be a wizard of great power, perhaps the next Merlin. Instead, you are merely mediocre. All of your victories have been purely dependent upon luck. You are not a threat to my power base, so I see no harm in letting you live. Even now, the seeds of my takeover of the Wizarding World are being sown. As we speak, the giants are being assembled, poised to strike at several Muggle targets, allowing the Ministry no doubt as to the forces I command. No, all I need from you is the prophecy. If I have that, your life shall be spared."

For a fraction of a second, Harry considered the offer. Would he be content to just sit around while the world burned?

Before the question was even asked, he knew the answer. He would never lift a single finger to aid Voldemort, even at the expense of his own life. Without hesitation, he shook his head.

Voldemort's face remained a mask at the decision, revealing nothing.

"I expected as much. Take a close look at the table, Harry. Warm, plentiful food, a chance at comfort. You should mark it well, because over the next month, all you will have of it is this memory."

With a quick, fluid movement, Voldemort withdrew his yew wand and flicked it at Harry. He was lifted off his feet and slammed forcefully into the stone wall, pinned in place. Like a cat stalking helpless prey, the Dark Lord approached. Frozen, Harry could only watch on in horror as Voldemort brought his wand to his neck.

"How easy it would be," breathed Voldemort, his voice low, as if he were talking to himself. "I may have healed you, Harry, but it would take minimal effort to tear you down again. Just one spell is all it would take…"

He trailed off, pressing the tip of the wand into the tender flesh of Harry's throat, and pushing. Pain began to radiate forth from the site, but Harry bit off a cry, not wanting to give Voldemort the satisfaction of his screams.

"With one spell, I could rip this accursed prophecy from you mind."

With a quick movement, Voldemort withdrew the wand from Harry's neck and raised it high. The yew wand was suspended in air for a moment, before moving closer to Harry's forehead.

Seeming to come to a decision, Voldemort turned away. At once, Harry dropped heavily to the floor.

"However, those who stand against me must be made example of."

Voldemort turned back around, his crimson eyes burning with mirth.

"And I have just the person in mind to accomplish it."

Almost casually, the Dark Lord flicked his wand, slinging a stunner at Harry crumpled form. For a moment he saw the red spell rush towards him, before the darkness consumed him.

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Cold shrouding his body, Harry woke to the sound of dripping water. Opening his eyes improved the situation little, as he saw only gloom. It was the darkness of the womb, without the comfort of its warmth.

Shivering, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but the paucity of light remained constant, providing no hint of his surroundings. All he knew was that it was fucking cold, and he lay upon an even colder surface.

For a moment, he thought of Voldemort's parting words, imploring him to hold dear to the memory of warmth. With a curse, he banished the thought to the recesses of his mind. He made his choice, there was no way he'd help Voldemort. If this was the price to pay, then so be it.

Reaching an arm out to his right, his hand found rough-textured stone, cold and damp to the touch. Running his hand up and down the surface, he found that it was a wall made from stones, with crumbling mortar between them. To his left was just dead air, suggesting that his sorry excuse for a bed was against the right-hand wall.

With careful deliberation Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed, lowering them slowly. They touched down in freezing water, causing him to draw his feet back up with a shout of surprise. The room was cold enough, but the shock of having his feet in the water seemed to penetrate all the way to his heart.

"Bloody hell," he moaned, holding his dripping feet in the air.

Mentally re-grouping himself, he lowered his feet back down. He clamped his jaw down as they struck the water again. They broke through the surface, touching down on damp stone. Pain beginning to radiate from his feet, he stood up, finding that the water was perhaps three inches deep.

For a moment, he thought he saw a brief, shining darkness in the water, but in the absolute dearth of light, his sight was not to be trusted. Slowly, shuffling step-by-step, his arms outstretched, he made his way across what he had begun to think of as his prison.

After a few painful steps, his hands touched the other side of the cell, connecting with more damp stone. It couldn't have been more than ten feet. Turning to his right, he began to move towards the 'front' of the cell, his hands once again finding damp stone. Following the wall with his hands, his fingers ran over roughly-textured material, set slightly into the wall. It felt like a wooden door, perhaps made of ironwood.

The exit from his prison.

His hands ran up and down the door, but it was completely smooth, not even a window on it. The only flaws he found were the hinges on the right side of the door, attached to the wall. Unsurprisingly, there was no give when he pushed up against it. None.

Starting at the door, he turned his back to it, and began to walk slowly. No more than two steps in he let out a cry of fear as something struck him in the head, yielding and cold. Freezing in place, it swung back at him, striking him in the shoulder this time, causing him to jump again.

"Calm down," he ordered, before reaching out, and grabbing the swinging thing. He felt a cold metal beneath his hand, forged into a shape that seemed to resemble a chain. Pulling on it, it appeared to be fastened securely to the ceiling, and held his weight without any sign of give. A single manacle hung from the end, as did the second chain he found right next to it.

The implications were chilling to say the least. Wading in this freezing water was bad enough, but having to stand in it while being hung by the wrists…was a thought he had no intention of dwelling on, but his mind had other ideas.

Sooner or later Voldemort, or one of his servants, would come in here and hang him from it. The thought of it dragged down his already low spirits, and all he wanted to do was crawl upon the hard bed and get his feet out of the cold water. However, he ignored the urge.

Harry couldn't afford any more lapses, any more laziness. Voldemort had been certain that escape was impossible, and most likely with good reason. If he was going to have any chance, he couldn't depend on luck, only himself. He needed to know exactly what the situation was, and every possible option he had.

Shivering violently, Harry began to circle the room, searching for any small detail he might have missed the first time around.

With the odds stacked so high against him, even the smallest detail could be the difference between life and death.

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His body aching from the cold, a very frustrated Harry Potter rolled off of the bed. Sleep had once again proved elusive, despite the bone-deep weariness he felt.

Down in the unchanging, unending darkness, he had no means of telling the time. He could have been down in this frozen hell for as little as twelve hours, or it could have been two days.

"Just fucking do it!" Harry screamed, before launching a kick at the unyielding door. The echo of his yell faded quickly, swallowed whole by the darkness. Though he was hungry, cold and exhausted, neither of the three aforementioned factors were the worst.

The unknown was far worse.

He hadn't a single clue what Voldemort's plans were, and the anticipation was driving him slowly insane. Was he just going to be starved, or would he freeze to death before that happened? Was the Dark Lord sending down one of his deranged Death Eaters to torture him?

The question continuing to torment him, he thought it was his imagination when he heard sounds from outside the thick door. Rushing over to it, he placed his ear against the door, just to be certain. Straining, he heard a regular, tapping sound outside the room. As it increased in pitch, it became apparent that it was the clacking of boots upon the stone floor.

Someone was coming.

"Who's there?" Harry demanded.

"Is itty-bitty-baby Potter feeling a bit lonely?" an unmistakable female voice gleefully cooed, one that had long haunted his dreams since his ill-fated trip to the Department of Mysteries.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

"Let me out of here, you fucking bitch!" screamed Harry, the memory of Sirius' death still burning brightly in his mind.

"Now, is that any way to talk to your Auntie Bellatrix?" she asked, before letting out a peal of maniacal laughter that seemed to cut right through Harry's head.

The rage within reaching a fever pitch, Harry sloshed through the water, to the left of the door. If that bitch thought she was going to come in here, he was going to give her all the fight that he could. Waiting, his muscles coiled, poised to strike, the door creaked open.

Bright light immediately poured through the doorway. It pierced his dilated pupils, setting them alight with pain. With an anguished cry, he clapped his hands over his eyes, falling backwards.

"Did itty-bitty Potter want to surprise Auntie Bellatrix?" she asked mockingly. At once, Harry rose, leaping towards the voice. He found nothing but air, flying head-first into the opposite wall, his teeth clicking painfully together. Stunned by the blow, he felt a force grab him by the arms, and pull him up. Opening his eyes, he saw both pairs of the suspended manacles had come to life, ensnaring his wrists before clamping down tightly upon them. Bound, the chains pulled upwards, suspending his hands high above his head.

"What's the matter? Why don't you want to play nice with your Auntie?" Bellatrix asked, coming into view for the first time.

Her pale skin seemed to have a leathery quality to it, with premature wrinkles forming at her eyes and the corners of her mouth. In other places, including her arms and most of her face, the skin was stretched tightly against her frame, giving her a disquietingly skeletal look. Her bodice was non-existent, the fabric flat across her chest, while her dark hair was scraggly and thinning, the long years in Azkaban having taken their toll.

The only part of her that burned with the same intensity he had seen during her trial was her violet eyes, which burned with an almost fervent fire, which danced with madness.

"You killed Sirius!" Harry raged, spittle flying from his mouth. Of all the Death Eaters Voldemort could have picked, he had chosen the one that had killed the closest thing to a parent he had ever known.

"Does baby Potter miss the mangy mutt?" Bellatrix cooed. "The blood-traitor that was too stupid to shut his mouth and fight-"

"Shut up, you fucking ugly hag, or I'll-"

"Do what?" questioned Bellatrix with a questioning smile. Harry, unable to think of a response that didn't sound stupid, opted for silence.

"Oh, does the cat have the itty-bitty baby's tongue?" she asked, reaching out with a skeletal finger to caress his cheek. Harry abided the repulsive leathery touch of the gnarled digit for a moment, before twisting his head to the side and snapping at it. Bellatrix, anticipating the attack, drew her finger back with time to spare, leaving Harry's teeth to clamp on nothing but one another.

Drawing her arm back, she swung out with a vicious backhand. The hand struck with a dull crack, loosening the teeth in his mouth and snapping his head off to the side. The impact dazed Harry for a moment, causing his head to swim. The fog immediately lifted as Bellatrix reached out and grabbed his chin with an iron underhanded grip.

"That was very naughty of you-"

She was cut off abruptly as Harry spat a mouthful of blood into her face, splattering her with dark liquid. Immediately she grabbed his shoulders, pulling him forward as she simultaneously drove her knee into his groin.

Harry let out a loud groan as he collapsed, pain exploding violently in his stomach, as if hit with a cannonball.

A maniacal grin spread out across Bellatrix's face, seemingly drinking in his agony like fine wine. Taking a step back, she ran her index finger down her own cheek, collecting bright drops of crimson blood, before bringing it to her lips. She licked the digit clean, closing her eyes as she did so.

"There's nothing like the vitality of unblemished youth," Bellatrix rapturously declared, before opening her eyes. "I can taste your innocence, and there will be nothing more beautiful than to see it broken piece by piece."

"Fuck you, you ugly cunt!" Harry wheezed.

For a moment, her eyes narrowed slightly, before rapidly assuming their usual deranged state, so quickly it could have been imagined.

"Azkaban may not have been kind to me," she admitted with a cruel, lazy smile, "but just think of how much uglier I could make you. I would shine like a diamond compared to you with the violence I could inflict."

Harry closed his eyes tightly as she moved her walnut wand towards his right one, pressing the tip into the flesh of the lid.

"With one curse, I could puncture this feeble orb, and let it deflate in your socket," she breathed, pressing in slightly, causing pain to radiate through his head. "Maybe Mad-Eye would even be kind enough to let you borrow his magical eye?"

Letting out a mad cackle, the pressure eased on his eye as she moved her wand down the bridge of his nose, all the way to the tip.

"Or what if I just cut off your nose? You'd look no better than some Knockturn Alley whore, too broke to afford the right potions."

Terror binding his heart, Harry began to shake uncontrollably. The crazy bitch was going to rip him apart, and there was nothing he could do about it.

"Or maybe I could rip out your teeth, one-by-one," she suggested, moving her wand down to his bloodied mouth. Without warning, she shoved the wand past his lips, into his mouth. The thin wooden tip pressed down upon his tongue, choking him.

"_Accio tooth!"_

At blinding pain filled Harry's mouth as he felt one of his back teeth forcefully ripped out, causing a torrent of blood to flow onto his tongue.

"No more!" he begged, tears of pain fattening at the corners of his clenched eyes.

"Open your eyes," Bellatrix purred. Afraid of what he would see, Harry kept his eyes closed, hoping that she would just go away.

"Look," she urged, tapping the tip of her wand upon his cheek a single time. Slowly, he did as commanded. Between her thumb and index finger she held one of his molars, the broken ends of the roots coated with blood, dripping down her pale hand.

"Keep in mind how ugly I can make you," she said lightly, before carelessly tossing the tooth over her shoulder. Abruptly, she turned her back on him and strode towards the door, her dark cloak trailing behind her.

"Pleasant dreams, baby Potter," she said without turning, before walking out of the cell. Before he could see what lay beyond, the heavy door slammed shut, once again plunging him into darkness.

The crater in his mouth continuing to well forth blood, Harry pulled against the chains a single time, before giving up. There was no way he was going to be able to free his arms, and there was no telling how long Bellatrix planned to leave him like this.

Was this only the beginning?

The thought drained him of any and all hope.

He was going to die down here, in a small cell, never to see the sun again.

Pain still radiating throughout his head, Harry began to openly weep, with the desperation of the hopeless.

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How long he hung in the air, his wrists suspended uncomfortably above him, Harry could only venture a guess. He was aware that there were brief periods of sleep, which were all quickly destroyed as he began to slump forward, the manacles on his arms painfully chafing against his wrist.

Worse, though, was the pain in his mouth. Without benefit of anesthesia, the place where Bellatrix had ripped his tooth pulsed with pain, flaring up to agony every time he even brushed his tongue over it. Without fail the pain drew him back to harsh reality.

Shivering in the darkness, Harry threw a glance towards the corner of the room where the bed was, a bitter certainty beginning to take hold. At first, he had thought that the hard, uncomfortable bedding was a travesty, an insult to sleep.

Now, having been standing in a half-inch of water for hours, his feet stinging with cold, his teeth chattering, he knew that if given the opportunity, the chance to move over to the bed would be like sinking into heaven. It would be a warmer place where he could be off the ground, his feet completely dry, and his wrists free.

Who knew what could happen next? Maybe Bellatrix would come in and rip out his tongue for insulting her. Maybe all he had to look forward to was the present, because the future was just going to keep getting worse and worse.

Well, until he died, anyway.

"No!" rasped Harry, the sound startling even himself. He was through cowering in the face of adversity. Bellatrix would like nothing better than to see him crawling, whining, begging to be put out of his misery, just as he had been when she had ripped out one of his teeth.

At once, his tongue flicked over the cavity in his upper gums where the molar used to be.

It hurt like hell to touch the impact site, the hard roots still lodged in his gums, and he once again tasted blood, but the action served its purpose. The rage began to build anew, feeding the fires of hatred.

Give up? Grovel like a worm? Fuck that.

And fuck Bellatrix. He may never escape his cell, but he would never give her the satisfaction she craved.

If hate was all he had left, then hate it would be.

After an indeterminate amount of time, Harry heard the familiar clacking of boots on the stone floor, growing steadily closer his cell. Again, he reminded himself of the vow he made when all hope was lost, lying broken at Voldemort's feet.

Better prepared this time around, Harry closed his eyes as the heavy door swung inward. The light still stung upon his face, but had nowhere near the potency it had with his eyes open.

"Did itty-bitty Harry have pleasant dreams last night?" Bellatrix asked in her fucking annoying baby-speak voice.

"No, I just couldn't get comfortable," Harry replied, opening his eyes a crack. His comment drew a mad cackle from his captor before she drew closer.

"Maybe I just have to tire you out a bit more," Bellatrix whispered into his ear. He was loathe to admit it, but her hot breath upon his ear felt wonderful, the first bit of warmth he'd had in a while.

Stepping away from him, she withdrew a large piece of brown bread from her dark robes.

"Baby Potter must be getting really hungry," she said with an exaggerated, clown-like frown.

Harry's stomach growled loudly in response, like a bear waking up from hibernation. It felt like days had passed since his final roast-beef sandwich back at Privet Drive.

"It sounds like he is!" Bellatrix exclaimed, before letting out a maniacal peal of laughter.

Harry said nothing, forcing himself to stay calm. He replied with a single shrug, barely moving his shoulders. If bothered by his nonchalant response, Bellatrix showed no outward sign.

"If I feed this to you, will you repay me by not biting off my fingers?" she asked, holding up the piece of bread. Harry glanced at the morsel of food, before forcing his gaze away, down to the floor.

"No."

"No?" came Bellatrix's surprised reply, as if uncomprehending of his answer.

"No," he repeated, more firmly this time, lifting his eyes to meet her gaze. "Any of your fingers come near my mouth, I'm fucking biting them off."

"Such defiance!" she exuberantly cackled, his violet eyes dancing with mischief. "This is going to be much more fun that I anticipated!"

At once, Bellatrix withdrew her wand and raised it. The piece of bread immediately took flight from her hand, rocketing towards Harry's mouth. He opened wide, fully prepared to chew ravenously, but it kept going. Before he could react, it had stuffed itself to the back of his mouth, and began to force its way down his throat. The rough texture of the bread scraped at the soft lining of his esophagus, bringing tears of pain to his eyes.

It was far too large. Tasting blood at the back of his throat, Harry tried to draw a breath to scream at Bellatrix, only to be thwarted.

The air passage was blocked.

His eyes bulging, Harry began to thrash violently, in an attempt to warn Bellatrix he couldn't breathe. The exhalation trapped within his lungs began to burn, the pressure in his head beginning to mount. He tried to point towards his throat, but with his hands shackled high above him, it was a futile effort.

"What's the matter?" Bellatrix asked, letting out a mocking laugh. "Wasn't little Potter hungry?"

At Harry's lack of reply, she placed her hands on her narrow hips, tossing her ragged hair over her shoulder.

"Wait, is something wrong with you?" she asked, raising a single finger to her chin, as if deep in thought. "Tell me what's wrong, and Auntie Bellatrix will make it all better."

Seemingly perplexed that he was unable to answer her, she continued to carefully watch him, head tilted to the side.

Unable to swallow the lump of bread lodged in his throat, Harry tried to make himself vomit forth the spongy mass. Without being able to stimulate the back of his throat, his efforts proved for naught, as he couldn't build up enough pressure to expel the bread. Shaking his head violently from side-to-side, pain sliced through his head as his vision began to gray.

Through the haze, he perceived motion in front of him, a vague shape moving towards his head. At once the lump within his throat was forced further, as if it had been kicked. It felt like sandpaper moving down his throat, but it finally cleared the passage.

His airway free, Harry took a deep gulp of air. It burned like fire, but pulling in the first breath of air felt like heaven. The pain in his head began to recede, and his vision cleared, alerting him to the fact that Bellatrix had a wand pointed straight at his head.

"_Aguamenti."_

A high-pressure torrent of water leapt forth from her wand, striking his face, knocking it back painfully. Surprised by the initial spray, he recovered quickly and began to swallow as much of the water as he could. It burned traveling down his throat, but he knew that it might be a long time before any more drinking water was provided to him.

"It would have made a poor host of me had I not provided a drink with your meal," Bellatrix mocked, lowering her wand. "Don't go anywhere, now."

Without any further words of farewell, she walked out the door, closing it behind her. Once again thrust back into darkness, his throat raw, he noted the state of his robes. From head to toe he was soaked, every inch of his clothes saturated. Combined with the cold temperature of the room, he was in for a long night.

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In all his life, Harry could never recall feeling so miserable. The dungeons of Malfoy Manor did not have any concept of the term 'summer'. Soaked to the bone, unable to dry himself, the atmosphere had leeched all the heat in his body through the water, leaving him freezing, his teeth chattering together.

Every inch of his body screamed indignantly at the constant exposure to the cold. He had developed a deep cough, which seemed to form at the very center of his chest, from his congested lungs. Pain accompanied each violent outburst, as if he was hacking out the lining of his lungs.

Harry was no doctor, but the term 'pneumonia' had occurred to him whenever he let out one of the coughs.

Hanging suspended from the building, Harry considered that his prior reckoning had been correct: Things were only going to get worse.

The knowledge brought him no solace. Rather, it made him want to cry tears of frustration at the unfairness of it all. At this moment, everything sucked, every part of him ached. To think that it would get even worse was a thought that scared him to no end. What if Bellatrix kept him alive for months, and continued to make each day progressively worse? Would his mind survive something like that? Would he even want to?

Harry shook his head, dislodging some of the more traitorous thoughts. What was or wasn't going to happen was out of his control. What was almost certain was that Bellatrix had been tasked with breaking his mind, making him willingly spill the contents of the Prophecy to Voldemort.

If he gave in, it would be just like handing off the Prophecy.

Fuck that.

His limbs losing feeling, becoming unresponsive, Harry began to make small circles with his wrists. The skin beneath the manacles had long ago grown chafed and painful, but he continued to move his fingers, desperately trying to keep the blood circulating. He didn't know how long, or even if it was possible to lose a hand from lack of blood flow, but wasn't about to find out.

As he moved his wrists, he began to jump up and down in the water, with the scant amount of lateral movement his bonds allowed. Though his goal was to stave off the cold, exhaustion crept in far more quickly than anticipated, rendering his legs useless.

The tomb-like silence of the cell was broken a few minutes later by the sounds of boots clacking in the corridor. Deprived of sight, his other four senses were on high-alert, and he distinctly heard that the steps had a hurried quality to them, completely unlike Bellatrix' steady, predatorial gait.

What was causing her to hurry?

A moment later, the door swung open, prompting Harry to tightly shut his eyes. Beneath closed lids, the flickering torchlight of the corridor still bothered his eyes, but a sharp intake of breath from the door stole his attention.

"You poor thing," a female voice gasped, before taking a step closer. The voice was prideful, refined as Bellatrix's was, but full of warmth and genuine empathy, lacking in madness.

He tried to open his eyes, but the light was still too painful for dilated pupils to abide.

"Who…who are you?" he croaked, his voice rusty from misuse, not to mention its harsh treatment.

"Someone who's here to help," she answered reassuringly, placing a small, delicate hand upon his chest. Even through the sodden fabric, her warmth was like being touched by the hand of the divine.

"You poor dear," she murmured, before withdrawing her hand. Protest building in his throat, Harry heard the rustle of shifting fabric.

"I'm sorry," she said, "But this is the best I can do."

At once, a tall, lithe body wrapped around Harry. With a flutter of movement, she draped a large cloth over the two of them, before circling her arms around his upper body, grasping him tight. The embrace was like a warm fire after a day spent in a snowstorm. Settling into it, he immediately became aware of the twin, fabric covered mounds pressing into his upper chest, flattening against him.

For a moment, he stiffened, flabbergasted by the knowledge. His experience with females' chest had been limited to discreet glances when the girls in question had been looking in the other direction, or not paying any attention.

His head settled into the bare hollow of her neck, like a newborn settling into their mother. Closing his eyes, Harry felt warmth begin to flow back into his extremities. He breathed deeply against her throat, inhaling the scent of lilacs.

Blood flowing back into his body, the shackles of hopelessness began to fall away. He didn't know who she was, why she was here, or what her motive was, but pressed up against her body, Harry could honestly say that he didn't care.

Beginning to feel human again, his lower half awoke from its hibernation, straining against the confines of his robe. With a surprised, slightly embarrassed chuckle, the woman stepped away from him.

"It looks like your blood is flowing again," she said quietly, the ghost of humor framing her words.

"T-thanks," Harry stuttered, unable to properly articulate his gratitude. About to open his eyes, she placed both of her hands over his sockets.

"I'm sorry, but I can't. Not yet, anyway."

"Please, get me out of here," begged Harry, keeping his eyes closed.

"I'm working on it, but I need you to hang on for a little while longer, and keep quiet about me. Can you do that?"

"Yes," Harry answered without hesitation, his voice firm. He didn't like being in the dark, but if he had any chance of getting out of here, he'd listen to any bizarre request that surfaced.

"Good," she answered, fabric shuffling as she put her robes back on. "I will get you out of here."

Her final promise ringing in the air, she left, closing the door behind her. As the darkness folded back in, Harry realized that he didn't even know the name of his savior.

Just that she was his last hope.

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Though the strange, unexpected encounter lasted only a few minutes, the brief reprieve re-kindled the fires of hope, long since dashed. The biting edge of the cell returned quickly, but the memory of warmth helped to dilute its potency, allowing for rational thought to freely flow.

Someone had infiltrated Malfoy Manor, and was trying to help him. Had Dumbledore come through? Had he found someone willing to go undercover?

The more Harry thought about it, the less sense it made. Why hadn't the woman just used a Warming Charm on him? As wonderful as it had been to be that close to a woman, from a practical standpoint, at least, there were far better ways to go about doing it.

No closer to an answer, he took as much solace as he could from the fact that his dim future had been brightened. With Bellatrix unable to kill him until he provided the prophecy, he had time. A day ago, it had seemed like an inevitability that he would be broken, and his secrets revealed, but with help on the way, he might just have enough time until he was broken out.

How long did he have, though?

The question plagued him through the long, seemingly endless stretches of darkness, punctuated only by his attempts to move his limbs when numbness began to overtake them. His mood fluctuated between guarded optimism and complete hopelessness, with all the spectrums between the two.

In some ways, it was almost a relief when the door opened again.

His feelings for Bellatrix were far simpler.

"Did baby Potter have a good night's rest?" she asked, grinning maniacally at him. Resisting the urge to scream at her, Harry held off, settling into the role of a broken-willed prisoner.

"Just get it over with," he said with a defeated sigh, settling his gaze upon the floor. He had no trouble fabricating the tortured quality of his words, ushered by his ragged throat.

"Oh, has itty-bitter Potter had enough of Auntie Bellatrix's tender attention?"

"I…I just want to go home," quietly admitted Harry.

With the speed of a snake striking, Bellatrix moved in front of him. She reached up with her right hand, grabbing a handful of his dirty hair. Up close, the hollow state of her eye sockets, and the wrinkled around her eyes and mouth become more pronounced, giving the impression of a someone who had aged far too quickly.

"You are home, Potter," she declared, her violet eyes dancing. "You belong to me, and will only draw breath for as long as I allow it. You are mine."

She punctuated the statement by grabbing him under the chin with her other hand, cupping it and bringing it right to her own face, to kissing distance.

"Do you understand?" she demanded, her eyes blazing, her spade-like fingernails digging into his right cheek.

Defiance flared within him at her close proximity. One step away from trying to bite her nose off, he smothered his first response. Despite his promise to provide resistance at every step, the appearance of a benefactor changed things considerably.

He had to placate Bellatrix.

"Yes!" he cried out, the words feeling like betrayal. For a moment she dug her nails deeper, pain blossoming across his face as she split the skin, before easing the pressure. Lowering her hand, he saw that the tips of her nails had trace amounts of blood on them, and could feel several rivulets running down his face.

For a moment, she put the hand in front of her face, before bringing it up. As if savoring the remains of a fine meal, she placed the digits in her mouth, her pink tongue working around the nails, tasting his blood.

"Did you know that blood tells all?" she asked upon finishing licking the red from her nails.

Not knowing where the crazy bitch was going, Harry shook his head.

"It is incapable of lying, and thus holds the ultimate truths of our world. It is little wonder that purity of blood is the foundation upon which our world is built. For instance," she said, stepping away from him, "I can taste the taint of the Mudblood whore you call a mother. It's like a fine meal served with stale bread."

His eyes downcast, Harry fought to maintain mental control. He wanted to kick out as hard as he could, and smash the crazy cunt's teeth in, but he had to remain patient.

"However, the blood reveals far more than purity. Its taste, its consistency says volumes about the person within which it flows. You are no exception, Potter. In fact, you have a secret, don't you?"

At once, panic began to claw at Harry. She knew! She fucking knew! How? Afraid to say anything that might incriminate himself he kept his eyes glued to the floor.

"You don't have to answer, Potter, I already know it."

Reaching down, almost gently, she grasped his chin and lifted it up, aligning their gazes.

"You have it all wrong, baby Potter," she whispered. "You think that I can't kill you, because of that precious prophecy you had stored in your head. That whatever I do to you, there is a line that I cannot cross."

Bellatrix moved her head forward, her warm breath buffeting against his ear.

"Because of this, you are not afraid. You think that whatever I do to you, it can't be that bad, because you'll still be alive. How wrong you are, baby Potter," she concluded with a dark chuckle, before leaning back. "Your entire way of thinking is incorrect. Death is to be your final reward for giving my Lord the prophecy."

Harry blinked uncertainly at her declaration, at the conviction in her words. Sure, he had already begged for death at the feet of Voldemort, but that hot summer night could have been a different person, as far as he was concerned.

He was through begging.

"I see the doubt clouding you eyes," she whispered, before licking her lips. "And I cannot wait to see you broken, piece by piece. Every bit of willpower you posses, every shred of pride I will take from you, every happy thought."

Letting go of his chin, she moved her hand upwards, caressing his cheek, almost lovingly.

"Your fall shall be a thing of beauty, baby Potter. To see your hollow, defeated eyes looking up at me, begging for release…"

A slight shudder ran down her body, starting at her head, and moving downwards. Her mouth parted slightly, revealing her yellowed, rotting teeth as a small moan escaped from between her lips.

Horrified, yet transfixed by the sight, he watched as she reached into her robes with both hands. With her right, she withdrew a walnut wand, while the left remained inside her robes. She let out another moan, her heavy-lidded eyes widening slightly as she pointed the wand at Harry.

"_Crucio!"_

White-hot pain exploded across Harry's body at her torturous curse. Helpless, he thrashed as invisible knives began to slice and flay every part of his skin, setting every single nerve alight. He tried to fight against it, but within seconds the anguished screams began to spill forth from his throat, echoing off the walls of his cell.

With each passing second, every single one an eternity long, the agony increased. He thrashed every part of his body, pulling as hard as he could against his bonds, as if he could escape the pain, but its jaws held firmly to his body.

Letting out a cry that nearly matched his own in volume, Bellatrix lowered her wand. The pale flesh of her face was flushed, while her chest heaved laboriously, up and down. At his reprieve, Harry collapsed, the bonds on his arms jerking against him, holding him up.

Though his wrists were chafed raw, he took no notice, instead only grateful for the absence of the Cruciatus Curse. Closing his eyes, he heard the door slam closed, once again entombing him in darkness.

Bellatrix gone, wet, hot tears began to spill from his eyes. He had felt the Cruciatus Curse from Voldemort before, but only for a short moment, where she had held it for at least ten. Above and beyond that, the sting of Bellatrix's curse was far more potent.

Yet despite the torment, and the spasms of his nerve endings, his will remained intact, only temporarily wounded.

Bellatrix was wrong. He'd never beg for death from that cunt.

Ever.

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In the timeless period following Bellatrix's visit, Harry began to understand even more fully why the Cruciatus Curse was labeled among the Unforgivables.

It felt like hours since the youngest Black sister had turned her walnut wand upon him, but still his body trembled involuntarily, his singed nerve endings continuing to spasm. Every part of his body ached.

Still, that wasn't the worst part.

The worst part was the mental aspect to the torture. In the midst of the curse, he had physically felt alien thoughts begin to form within his mind, as it tore free from the moorings of sanity.

Frank and Alice Longbottom's condition made much more sense now. To have spent minutes under the Cruciatus Curse…it was unthinkable.

An immeasurable amount of time later, during which Harry occasionally drifted into a restless, shallow sleep, plagued by images of dark figures, he heard the sounds of footsteps in the corridor.

His heart beating heavily in his chest, he strained his ears. Against the damp stone floor, the steps were slow, cautious, lacking the quick, confident gait that Bellatrix possessed.

It was his benefactor.

As the door opened, Harry shut his eyes against the light, praying that today was the day he would escape.

"How…how bad is it right now?" his companion asked hesitantly.

"It's…" he began, before letting out a hacking, ragged cough.

"I'm so sorry, Harry," the woman said tenderly, her voice full of remorse. Beginning to grow accustomed to light once again, he began to slowly open his eyes. Squinting, he saw the faint outline of a tall, thin shape, but couldn't make anything else out.

"I'm just – just glad it's you here, not Lestrange," he croaked.

"Luckily, she's on a mission for the Dark Lord today, so we have time."

"That's good to hear," Harry croaker. His slit eyes beginning to dilate, he opened them all the way, revealing his benefactor.

The tall, lithe woman standing in front of him could have been Bellatrix's much younger sister. Both of their faces possessed high, aristocratic cheekbones, but this woman's features were softer, kinder, down to her light-brown eyes. Her teased, dark brown hair was cut just below her shoulders, and her pale, creamy skin was without flaw, bearing no signs of the abuse which had decimated Bellatrix.

"Who…who are you?" gasped Harry.

"We do look quite alike," the woman irritably admitted, before shaking her head. "Andromeda Tonks at your service."

At once, the younger Tonks' word came back to him. While Bellatrix and Narcissa Black had taken Pureblooded husbands, Andromeda had married a Muggle, Ted Tonks, which had led to her being blasted off of the Black family tree.

"So you're Tonks' mother," he surmised, which she answered with a curt nod. "Nymphodora?"

The woman let out a small smile at his question.

"My daughter may not like it, but females in our family traditionally have long, aristocratic first names, which annoy them to no end."

Harry let out a small chuckle, despite his vast discomfort. It quickly morphed into a coughing fit, the sound of hacking filling the small room. Andromeda's smile quickly faded away as she gazed upon him with equal parts worry, and, for some unexplained reason, guilt. Reaching into her robes, she withdrew a crystal phial with a cork stopper, filled with a reddish, black-speckled liquid. She unstopped the phial, sticking the cork back into a pocket, before raising it to his lips.

"It's Pepper-Up, it will make you feel better," she urged, to which he replied with a nod of assent. She tipped the potion past his lips. It burned like fire going down, but the cold and chest congestion immediately disappeared as steam began to waft from his ears. The weariness also began to lift from his bones. He was still in pain from the ache in his mouth, not to mention his abused nerve endings, but it was definitely an improvement.

"Thanks," Harry said gratefully as she took back the empty phial.

She waved him off.

"It's the least I can do, considering…"

Andromeda looked anguished for a single moment, before quickly regaining her composure. Reaching into her robes, she withdrew a small package wrapped in paper.

"Considering…" Harry began to ask, before trailing off as Andromeda unwrapped the white paper. Nestled within were four small scones, yellow honey drizzled across them. His stomach, woken from its coma, let out a loud growl at the sight.

Food had never looked so good.

"It's nothing," she said quickly, before breaking off a piece of the scone, and bringing it to his mouth. Using only the right side of his mouth, he chewed greedily.

"I'm sorry I couldn't get you anything better," she said as he continued to eat, "but breakfast is the easiest meal to take food from unnoticed."

Harry shook his head, before swallowing what was in his mouth. It tasted like heaven, the first real food he'd had since Privet Drive.

"This is great," he said honestly, before turning his eyes downward. "But…."

Harry trailed off, not quite knowing how to ask the question without sounding like an ungrateful prick.

"Why am I feeding you and not getting you out of here?" she asked, correctly interpreting his unasked question.

Harry nodded sheepishly at her conclusion.

"Harry…the situation is a lot more complicated than you know. First, you wouldn't happen to know Occlumency, would you?"

He shook his head, the memories of Snape's disastrous tutelage still fresh in his mind.

"Shite," she signed. "I assumed as much, but it still would have been easier. Okay, I'll tell you as much as I can, but there's going to be certain things I cannot reveal. My dearest sister is not that skilled of a Legilimens, but against an unshielded mind, she will be able to find what she wants."

Andromeda stopped for a moment to feed Harry another piece of a scone, before staring directly into his eyes, capturing them.

"Strong emotions are the lone defense an unshielded mind has against an unskilled Legilimens. If you ever start to feel her probe into your mind, you need to focus upon how much you hate Bellatrix. It will overwhelm your other thoughts, making them far more difficult to interpret. Can you do that?"

Harry nodded as he chewed. Conjuring hate for Bellatrix wasn't exactly the most difficult thing in the world.

"Dumbledore called an emergency meeting of the Order of the Phoenix following your abduction from Privet Drive. I'm sorry for your loss, by the way."

Harry thanked her quietly. Though he hadn't cared for the Dursleys, that didn't mean they deserved to be tortured and murdered.

"Considering the circumstances…" she trailed off, her expression growing pained for a moment, before shaking her head, "I'll spare you the details, but a few days later, I spent a night with Emmeline Vance at her home. Its location was leaked to Voldemort, and he had his Death Eaters attack it. She escaped, as planned, but I was captured…as was the plan."

"That's suicidal!" Harry exclaimed after swallowing the bit of scone in his mouth. She let out a small smile, and shook her head.

"For most of the members of the Order, it would be. However, with my 'esteemed' heritage, Voldemort decided to grant me a stay of execution, to see if I would be amiable to joining his side."

"That's…that's crazy."

"Dumbledore thought it would work, and so far, he's been right. Think about Voldemort's blood supremacist ideals: The pureblooded Wizarding population is in sharp decline, and if he doesn't win this war in the next few years, he won't have many dedicated followers left."

It took a few moments for Harry to read between the lines. His mouthed open in surprise as he figured it out.

"So you…"

"No, not yet," she answered, shaking her head. "But yes, my life was spared in order to birth more Pureblooded wizards. During the first Wizarding War, Voldemort would have never considered such a thing, but with such heavy losses on both sides, he has been forced to approach the problem from a different angle."

Harry shook his head. Infiltrating the Malfoy Manor was dangerous enough, but the level to which her involvement had become…

"I assure you, I have no intention of letting any of his Death Eater scum touch me," she boldly declared. "I'll be gone long before that happens."

"So are you going to break us out?"

"Eventually. I have to get back my wand first. They took it away, saying that my union with a male of unclean blood stained me, and that I must be 'cleansed' before I am free to use the gift of magic."

"Cleansed?" Harry asked warily.

"It hasn't been made explicit, but I believe they mean when I am pregnant with some blood supremacist arsehole's kid."

"That's…that's terrible."

"You have it much worse than me, Harry," she said with a sad shake of her head. "Malfoy Manor is a prison, but I am free to go where I want within the mansion, save for rooms connected to the Floo Network, which are locked to me."

"But they allow you potions?"

She let out a small smile.

"No, but fortunately, one of the House-Elves that works within Malfoy Manor used to care for Bellatrix, Narcissa and myself. Dappy always liked me the best, and is more apt to disobey orders from Lucius."

"Can Dappy get us out of here?"

Andromeda shook her head.

"She won't break rules that blatantly, she'll only bend them. I think I can still get us out of here, but it's going to take a few more days. Can you hold on for that long?"

"Yes," agreed Harry, without the slightest bit of hesitation.

At his words, she let out a small smile. Bending down slightly, she put her hands lightly upon his shoulders, before placing a gentle kiss at the corner of his mouth.

"No wonder Dumbledore thinks so highly of you. Stay brave, our little savior, and I promise I'll get you out of here."

She left without further comment, closing the door behind her. Harry barely noticed it, still dazed by her gesture, the place where she kissed him continuing to burn.

X-X-X-X-X-X -|- X-X-X-X-X-X -|- X-X-X-X-X-X

In the complete darkness of the cell, Harry exhaled, blowing out one final billow of steam. The traces of the Pepper-Up Potion still burned slightly along the ragged extraction site in his gums, but it was more than a worthy trade for making his ragged breathing and escalating fever disappear.

Finding sleep once again elusive, he began to sift through the fragments leftover from the bombshell Andromeda had dropped upon him.

For how grateful he was at having something in his stomach, and his burgeoning sickness driven away, he couldn't help but think that something was off, that the entire situation was not right. Andromeda's appearance just seemed so goddamn convenient.

With all the possible ways there were for a magic user to escape, even without assistance of a wand, would the Malfoys really allow Andromeda to go where she wanted? Didn't it leave the possibility of escape too wide open; especially considering the door to his cell was unlocked? What is she had snuck in a Portkey?

It all just seemed like too much.

Voldemort was not known to show mercy to those who had defied him. If Andromeda had been at an Order meeting, that probably meant she was a member, and thus part of a group that opposed him. Why would this time be any different for Voldemort?

Her ideas about Occlumency were especially troubling. Snape had drilled into his head, from their very first lesson, that strong emotions allowed Legilimens' easy access to any memory they wished. Then again, Snape's motivations were questionable to say the least. Despite Dumbledore's assurances to the contrary, Harry was convinced that the Potions Master had not attempted to teach him anything, and had even intentionally weakened his mind's resistance, allowing Voldemort easier access.

Perhaps there was more than one way to keep out a Legilimens.

With that being said, Harry expected Dumbledore to pull out all the stops to rescue him. If the Headmaster believed in the prophecy as much as Harry suspected he did, then he'd put every resource possible into finding him. Was Andromeda's staged capture only the first part?

With a sigh, Harry conceded that anything he thought of at this point was pure speculation, completely out of his hands. Either Andromeda was here to help him, or it was just another mind-fuck that Bellatrix had devised.

He'd trust Andromeda for now, but keep a careful eye on her. Not that he was in any real position to do anything about his situation, but if the opportunity presented itself, he'd need to be prepared.

Chained to the ceiling, suspended in darkness, time seemed to slow to a crawl for Harry. As the moments stretched out, seemingly to infinity, the warm edge of the Pepper-Up Potion began to fade away, like smoke between his grasping fingers. It was torturous, the comforting warmth giving way to the uncaring chill of the dungeon, increasing the potency of his ailments. The ache in his jaw seemed to increase in potency, as did the pain from his chafed, sensitive wrists.

Whatever Andromeda was planning, he hoped it would be done with as soon as possible.

Much sooner than Harry would have liked he heard the slow, familiar steps upon the stone floor, the first sign which always heralded Bellatrix's arrival.

The sound still inspired fear.

Despite knowing that he now had a shot of escape, and that this visit could be Bellatrix's last, her approach still brought dread. He had expected to be subjected to an endless barrage the Cruciatus Curses, but his captor had been far more creative in her methods of torment.

As bad as the pain curse was, the unknown was even worse.

"Good morning, itty-bitty Potter," Bellatrix greeted, throwing open the cell door. "It's time to face another day."

Anger didn't work. Sadness didn't work. Submission didn't work. Regardless of his answer, his captor was going to pursue whichever whim overtook her.

"Good morning," he replied, keeping his voice level.

Opening his eyes, he saw that Bellatrix's thin arms were folded across her chest, and she held her chin in her right hand, as if she were examining a piece of art.

Maybe in her mind, she was.

"I must say, you look positively radiant today, Potter," she said, a small, dangerous smile upon her face. "Did the kiss of my Cruciatus cure what ailed you?"

"I don't know," Harry said with a careless shrug. "It's probably not a Healer-approved method."

"Oh, you'd be surprised," Bellatrix said, staring into his eyes. "The insane were often exposed to long bouts of the Cruciatus Curse. If was thought that what would drive a sane person insane, might work in both directions."

"That's stupid."

"Is it?" she asked, tilting her head to the side. "I'd say it's probably the most likely solution, when confronted with the other possibilities."

Harry immediately narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Wherever Bellatrix was going, he was certain that it wasn't going to work out well for him.

"I mean, just look at yourself!" she exclaimed. Moving forward, she placed a hand upon his forehead. It made contact for a moment, before Harry jerked his head backwards, out of reach. "You've been down in a damp, cold cell for eight days, yet your temperature is normal. How else can you explain that?"

Harry stayed silent as he watched the woman cross her arms back over her chest, and begin to pace, keeping her gaze straight ahead.

"I mean, you're certainly in no position to help yourself, and all the house-elves have been instructed the dungeon is off-limits. I know that none of the Malfoys are helping you, and I know my blood-traitor of a sister is too smart to help you."

Bellatrix's voice dropped an octave at the last, emphasizing it's importance.

"Because right now, the grace of the Dark Lord is the only thing keeping her alive. If I were to find that she had betrayed our Lord's trust, the Cruciatus would seem like a mere chaste kiss compared to what I would do to her. I don't like to share my possessions."

Panic clouding his mind, he tried to calm himself, but it was like being assured in another language.

She knew about Andromeda!

At once, Harry let all his hatred for Bellatrix rise to the surface. Every curse, every wretched minute he had spent in this cold fucking spell. Those thoughts in mind, he raised his eyes, meeting her violet ones.

"It's just me down here."

"Are you sure?" she asked, meeting his gaze with a cruel smile of her own.

"Right, almost forgot about that. She did come down here, but was tired, and said she'd free me later."

Bellatrix threw her head back, letting out a hag-like cackle.

"So baby Potter thinks he has some claws, does he? We'll see about that."

Withdrawing her wand, Bellatrix pointed it at the floor beneath his feet. Apprehensively, he looked down to see the floor shifting, before multiple sharp objects stabbed into the soles of his feet. Cursing, he watched as spikes grew out of the floor, clumped close to one another.

"If you think you're ready to be treated like one of the adults, you wouldn't mind if we get a bit more serious, would you? What, say you, Potter?"

Gritting his teeth, Harry pulled his legs up, leaving them suspended over the bed of spikes. The effort required was tremendous, but he used his arms to pull himself up, and brought his knees up slightly.

"Well, let's see how long you can hold that," Bellatrix said with a maniacal smile. "I'll be back in three days. Good luck, baby Potter."

Without further comment, she spun around and exited the room, extinguishing the light.

Harry's mouth dropped open at her declaration.

Three fucking days?

He'd be lucky to last three minutes.

X-X-X-X-X-X -|- X-X-X-X-X-X -|- X-X-X-X-X-X

It ended up being five.

Prior to his imprisonment, his body shaped from hours upon hours of Quidditch practice, Harry could have hung for an hour.

However, after being subjected to torture, malnourishment and the elements, his muscles had atrophied to lean strings of sinew. By the end of the first minute, sweat had popped out over his body as he tried to maintain the delicate balance between the burning in his muscles and the unforgiving spikes sprouting from the floor.

Through sheer force of will he held on for another four minutes, before conceding defeat. If he was going to have to put his feet down, best to do so with some resemblance of control, rather than having them crash down in exhaustion.

Harry lowered his left foot gingerly, his big toe angled downwards, testing the tips of the spikes. With a wince he drew his foot back up. Not only were the tips razor sharp, but they were clumped together, too much so to fit any of his toes between.

Bellatrix had not left any flaws in her punishment.

"You fucking cunt," hissed Harry, tears of frustration running down his face. There would be no release, no reprieve until his captor came back. He could either let his feet bear the pain, or his arms.

Or maybe he could distribute the discomfort between the two?

Desperate for any sort of solution, Harry tensed his arms as tightly as he could, all while inhaling as deep as he could. Upon the exhalation, he lowered his feet to the bed of sharp objects. Pain bloomed in both feet as the spikes penetrated his soles. Harry let out a cry, but continued his slow descent, relieving the tension upon his arms fraction by fraction.

Involuntary tears of mingled pain and anger spilling down his cheeks, he screamed as the sharps dug deeper into his feet. He stopped his downward progress, holding himself in place with his arms.

If Bellatrix was true to her words, he had days of this to look forward to. Maybe if he got the worst part out of the way, his perforated feet would grow accustomed to the spikes punched through them.

Harry was well aware that it was a feeble hope, but it was all he had.

He released the tension on him arms, allowing his body to sink lower, driving the soles of his feet deeper into the floor. As opposed to lessening, the agony grew deeper, more potent as they pressed further inwards.

To redirect the attention of his mind, he snapped as his lower lip, snagging it and biting down as hard as he could. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth, but the pain radiating forth from his lip felt like a mere tickle compared to the torture his feet were experiencing.

Harry tried to think of Andromeda, and her promised escape, but all notions of hope drowned within the ocean of pain. Only hate was spared, the fires growing larger by the minute. Visions of murder splashed across his consciousness, obliterating all else.

He thought of the terror in Bellatrix's violet eyes as he turned her own wand upon its master, her frail body thrashing as he writhed beneath his Cruciatus Curse. He saw himself smashing her face in, spraying blood and teeth in every direction, caving in her skull.

With crystal clarity, he saw vengeance.

X-X-X-X-X-X -|- X-X-X-X-X-X -|- X-X-X-X-X-X

Time had lost all meaning.

Despite the chill of the cell, Harry's body burned with fever. His feet throbbed like rotten teeth, every movement sending jolts of pain running up his legs. Water was a mere memory. The lack of fluids had reduced his tongue to a dried husk, which scraped like sandpaper against his teeth.

In a faraway, coherent part of Harry's mind, he thought he might be dying.

The idea didn't bother him in the least.

In his feverish state, it was thoughts of ice cream that dominated his thoughts, of the monster portions that Florean Fortescue used to serve at his parlor.

If anyone had told Harry prior to his introduction to the Wizarding World that peanut butter and strawberry made for a great sundae, he would have thought them barmy.

Or maybe magic was the only thing that saved the combination from being horrible. He probably wouldn't have even tried it had Florean not recommended it to him during his Third-Year summer's stay in Diagon Alley.

Astray in his feverish thoughts, a bright explosion of light shattered the cocoon of darkness. He closed his eyes against the intrusion. The new entrant let out a loud gasp.

"M-Merlin, what has she done to you, Harry?"

The voice was distant, as if coming from the other side of a waterfall. Annoyance began to rise within Harry at the interruption. He had been having nice thoughts about ice cream, and this person had the gall to disturb him?

"Go away," he tried to order, but all that emerged from his throat was a low croak, before a violent coughing fit came over him, the spasms wracking his frail frame.

Soft hands grabbed either side of his head, before letting go, as if burned.

"Shite!" the same female voice swore, before Harry heard the sound of rustling fabric and clinking glass.

"Drink this," she ordered, thrusting a glass object onto his lips. A cool liquid spilled out, which Harry drank greedily. Bit by bit the thick fog clogging his head cleared away.

"Better?"

"Yeah," croaked Harry as he opened his eyes, seeing the tall, lithe form of Andromeda Tonks. She regarded him with worried eyes, biting her lower lip.

"It's…."

Harry trailed off as a wave of pain radiated forth from his feet, causing him to gasp in agony. In the flickering torchlight, he finally saw his feet.

The weight of his body had driven the spikes all the way through his foot. The tips had split the skin on the top of his foot, blood and pus weeping from the wounds. As opposed to being a creamy white, the flesh of his feet had turned purple, like a giant bruise. The eggplant-toned skin mottled to a dark crimson as it reached his legs. Angry red lines ran up his leg, disappearing beneath the hem of his robe.

Harry began to dry heave at once at the sight, violent spasms wracking his body. Andromeda laid a comforting hand upon his shoulder, squeezing it.

"I'm so sorry," she sobbed. "I – I couldn't get her sooner, they're watching me closely."

"My…my feet," he said weakly, not hearing a word she spoke.

It looked like his lower body belonged to a decomposing corpse.

Without warning, soft palms pressed themselves into either side of his face, forcing his gaze upwards.

"Harry, I know it looks bad," Andromeda said, tears shining upon her cheeks. "Once we get you out of here, though, you're going to be okay. Do you understand?"

He stared at her dully. Who was she trying to kid?

"I'm going to get you out of here," she insisted, her gaze intent. "I at least owe you that."

"Why?" spat Harry, losing his temper. "What do you owe me?"

Unsure of herself, Andromeda dropped her gaze, as if broaching an uncomfortable subject.

"Harry, I…."

She trailed off, not knowing what to see.

"Fine, whatever. I'm going to die before you get me out of here anyway. Look at me!"

At his words, she raised her gaze back up.

"Harry, I'm breaking you out tonight."

Dead silence followed her declaration. Harry stared at her, not quite believing, not even daring to hope.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes," she answered with renewed confidence. "My sister made no secret that she'd be leaving you alone for three days."

"She said so to me."

"Well, it's the morning of the third day. Bellatrix will be back tonight, and I need to have you out of her before she returns."

"How?" demanded Harry. "You don't have a wand."

"No, I don't. I have something else though."

Andromeda reached into her robes, withdrawing a small object within her clenched hand. She opened his fingers, displaying a grey, polished stone the size of a small egg.

"A rock?"

She shook her head, a small smile crossing her features.

"A Portkey."

"What? How?"

"I…I snuck it in here."

"They didn't search you when you were captured?"

"Not thoroughly enough."

Her answer gave Harry a moment's pause, before he shook his head a single time, as if to clear it.

"So what are we waiting for? Get me out of…" he trailed off as the truth of the situation hit home. "This place is warded against Portkeys, isn't it?"

"For the most part, yes."

"But…."

"There's a single hole in the wards. The Malfoys have a receiving room on the first floor, off of the main entryway. Most older Pureblooded homes have them, as a way to entertain foreign guests."

"So we can finally get out of here?"

Andromeda was silent for a moment.

"It won't be easy, but yes, we have a chance."

Harry nodded, her unspoken words explaining everything. What they were going to do was very dangerous, and they might not even make it out, but it was a chance he was willing to take, especially considering the alternative.

"So what's the plan then?"

"I still have a few finishing touches to add, but we can start now. This…this part is not going to be pleasant," she explained, remorse in her voice.

Harry snorted before he could stop himself. The first day that he had spent upon the board of nails, before the fever had blotted out all rational thought, was the most harrowing experience of his life. Held helpless as your feet were impaled a fraction of an inch as a time…was beyond description.

"It can't be as bad as the past two days," he explained.

"I hope not," Andromeda replied, sounding anything but convinced. From her robe she withdrew a small plate of steel, just large enough to stand upon. She placed the flat piece of steel next to his feet, before crouching down and wrapping her arms around his legs. Pain exploded forth from where her arms touched his legs, eliciting a cry of anguish.

"I'm sorry!" 

"Just get it over with," Harry hissed, his voice pained. With a nod she tightened her grip and lifted upwards. He let out a scream of agony as his feet were ripped from the sharp surfaces. Breathing heavily from supporting his weight, she slid the plate under his feet, protecting them from the spikes.

They still hurt like fucking hell.

"Here. Drink this."

At once she pressed a glass container to his lips. He almost gagged at the foul concoction, which tasted like a mix between dirt and sour milk.

"I know it's foul," she apologized, "but things that gross do down easier without warning."

The gorge rising in his throat, Harry let out a slight nod, not trusting himself to speak without vomiting up its contents.

"I can't do much for the pain, but the potion will prevent the gangrene from spreading any further."

Andromeda drew a wide vial from within her robes, containing a yellow substance with the consistency of mucus.

"This will begin to reverse the damage to your feet, but…"

"Just get it over with," repeated Harry, not taking any care to keep the annoyance from his voice. She gave a sharp nod, before going to work, beginning to slather the salve on her hands. He kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling, well aware that his stomach could not handle another glance at his feet.

Despite her hesitation, the agony wasn't as bad as Harry expected. As opposed to just having the normal bone-deep, penetrating pain, it felt like an outside layer of acid had been thrown atop the mess.

"Thanks," he forced out once she rose, wiping her hands on the insides of her robe. As miserable as it had been, he was grateful, to a level that he couldn't even begin to articulate.

As she nodded in acceptance, his mind strayed back to her evasive comments regarding her presence. She didn't seem to think she owed him…rather, Andromeda acted like she was trying to right a wrong.

Why though?

"Now, you still need a Healer to look at you," Andromeda warned, tearing him from his thoughts. "But by the time I return tonight, you should be well enough to move."

Harry cast a doubtful glance downward. Covered in the thick, yellow substance, it looked like a giant had sneezed all over his legs.

It was an improvement from their previous state.

"Will I be able to move on my own?"

Andromeda hesitated a moment, before shaking her head.

"I doubt it. You might be able to walk with my support, but beyond that…"

"So basically we're doomed," Harry concluded.

"Hey, come on!" Andromeda urged. "We have a real chance to get out of here. Are you just going to give up now?"

Angry retorts raced through Harry's mind. Had she been exposed to repeated bouts of the Cruciatus Curse? Had her teeth been ripped out? Were her feet rotting?

However, it was the final part which ensnared Harry most. Give up? And let Voldemort win? No fucking way.

"Definitely not."

"Good," replied Andromeda with a smile. "It would have been terribly disappointing to have gone to all this effort for nothing."

Harry appreciated the sentiment, but couldn't return it. The searing, burning agony that was his lower body prevented him from doing so.

Andromeda, sympathetic to his plight, seemed to understand. With soft hands, she grasped either side of his head, capturing her gaze.

"I…I cannot even begin to comprehend what its been like for you down here, in the darkness. The things my cunt of a sister has put you through…they would have broken even the strongest of wizards. You're a hero, Harry. And we only need you to hang on for another day. Can you do that for us?"

Hands pressed to either side of his head, he nodded, unable to speak.

"We're all depending on you, Harry," she said, before leaning down, placing a warm kiss upon his forehead. He savored every second of it, her lilac scent temporarily transported him away from the damp, dark cell.

The reprieve departed all too quickly, harsh reality flooding back. Before he could react, she was gone, leaving him alone to his thoughts.

X-X-X-X-X-X -|- X-X-X-X-X-X -|- X-X-X-X-X-X

Immersed in darkness, unable to read his watch, time slowed down to a crawl. As opposed to most of his days beneath Malfoy Manor, where he had no reference of time, the impending escape attempt danced out of reach, at an hour that would never arrive.

After several lifetimes of waiting, the thick door opened, letting in bursts of flicking torchlight.

"You made it," Harry said. Alone in the dark, he had been certain that Andromeda would never come back, that either Bellatrix or the Malfoys would catch onto her ploy.

"I told you I would," she replied with confidence.

Once his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw that the woman held out a vial filled with a dull green liquid for his inspection.

"What is it?"

"A volatile acid which reacts poorly with human flesh. If I had better ingredients, I could have made something better, but…"

"As long as it gets me out of here, it can be the worst brewing in the world."

She let out a small smile at his statement.

"Okay, fair enough."

Andromeda placed two gentle hands upon his chest, before pushing. The steel plate beneath his feet scraped and skidded across the bed of spikes. The new position put an uncomfortable strain upon his withered arms, though it was a quiet murmur compared to the pain in his lower extremities.

"I can't use this on your wrists," Andromeda said as she uncorked the vial. "They'd eat through not just the manacles, but the skin as well. Stand still."

With wide eyes, he watched as Andromeda raised her arm. The chain connected to both of the manacles ran through a large eye-bolt on the ceiling. She tipped the vial carefully, spilling in onto the center. The heavy iron hissed and spat as the acid ate through the bolt and the chain.

Liberation at hand, Andromeda spoke up.

"Harry, you have to keep your arms up until the bolt breaks. Can you do that?"

He nodded, right as the bolt broke, drops of acid falling to the floor below. Despite the overwhelming urge to lower his arms, he kept them raised, following his benefactor's instructions.

The chain let go at once. Andromeda caught both lengths in each hand, before lowering them, preventing the chain from swinging.

"Is it-"

"Quiet!" Andromeda snapped, cutting him off. As her sharp reprimand faded, he discovered that the hissing of acid eating through metal had not subsided. With widened eyes, he glanced down, to see minute plumes of smoke wafting off the ends of the chain.

The acid wasn't stopping. Had Andromeda missed grabbing the chains, they would have swung into him, getting the acid on his skin.

"Shite, is it going to stop?"

"Yes," she answered, doubt in her voice. Less than assured, Harry's gaze locked upon the chains, wishing with all his might that the potion would stop working. Even the agony in his legs fell to the wayside.

Inch by inch the acid ate away at the chain, before finally exhausting itself. Harry let out a breath he couldn't recall taking, sweat pouring down his body. The acid had eaten away four feet of chain from either side, leaving three dangling from each manacle.

"That…was too close," he gasped.

"I told you it wasn't the best brewing in the world," Andromeda said, her face flushed with worry, "but I didn't think it would work that badly."

"It was great," Harry disagreed. He let out a gasp of relief as he finally lowered his arms. Muscles long dormant creaked in protest, but for his aching arms, it was nirvana. "Even if it had taken my hands, it would have been better than being stuck down here forever."

"Thanks. Sorry, but I don't think I'm going burn off the remaining chain."

"No, definitely not," agreed Harry. "Can we get out of here now?"

"Yes, of course," Andromeda answered. Before Harry could say anything, she leaned forward, wrapping her arms around his body. "Hold on to me."

Surprised, Harry did as instructed. She lifted him into the air, before taking a few steps backwards, away from the section of spikes protruding from the floor.

"I could have jumped-" he started to say, before she lowered him to the floor. Harry let out a cry of agony as his feet touched down, almost falling over. Andromeda was right there to catch him, supporting him by the shoulders.

"Fucking hell," he cried at the agony pouring through his feet, like molten lava.

"Try to take a few steps," Andromeda urged, placing a steadying hand upon his forearm. "I know it hurts, but this is the best we can do without a Healer."

Harry thought that 'hurting' was quite the fucking understatement, but chose not to say it.

"I'll deal with it. Is there anyone else here?"

"There is, but the three Malfoys may have had a Sleeping Draught slipped into their food at dinner tonight."

Despite the pain, a small grin slipped onto Harry's face. He imagined the three, stuffy aristocrats keeling over at the dinner table, much like Crabbe and Goyle had during his second year at Hogwarts.

"And Bellatrix?"

"She's making a covert trip to Lestrange Manor. She'll be back within the hour, so I think we should be departing. Are you ready?"

Harry nodded in response. Though moving around was the last thing he wanted to do, the promise of escape spurred him onwards.

Andromeda wrapped a supporting arm around his midsection, placing them hip-to-hip. A searing pain bloomed forth from his feet upon the first step, forcing a strangled cry from his lips, but he kept on moving.

It still hurt like fucking hell, but he was determined not to stop. This was his only chance for escape.

Together they limped out of the small cell. As he passed beyond the threshold of the cell, out into the corridor, he let out a choked sob.

"Do you need to stop?" Andromeda asked, concern in her voice.

Harry shook his head.

"No, I…I just thought I was going to die in there. I was sure of it. I…thank you so much, Andromeda."

The tall woman seemed uncomfortable with his words of thanks, looking away from his gaze.

"How are your feet?" she asked, still looking away.

Flummoxed by her reaction, his answer to the abrupt change of subject caught him off guard.

"Um, er, they still hurt, but it's getting easier to walk."

She nodded a single time, before meeting his gaze again. With her other hand, she pointed towards the chains dangling from the manacles tied around his wrists, which just scraped the floor.

At once, he bent down slightly, and grasped the ends of the chain with each hand, lifting them up from the floor.

"You catch on quickly," complimented Andromeda, the haunted look departing her eyes. "From here on out, we have to be as quiet as possible. The portraits watching over the halls won't see us, but if we make enough noise, they will wake up."

"Got it," Harry said. He was curious to as to how they were going to avoid detection, but Andromeda's inexplicable discomfort whenever he thanked her preyed more heavily upon his mind.

Andromeda Tonks was risking life and limb to help him escape. She had proved that beyond any shadow of a doubt. What was she hiding from him, then?

With no way of answering the question, he began to move down the corridor.

The dungeon hallway was constructed from damp, crumbling stone. Bright yellow flames burned within copper braziers, green with oxidation, set into the wall. Cells identical to the one he had been imprisoned in were set into the alcoves between the braziers, four on each side.

Upon reaching the heavy wooden door at the end of the corridor, Andromeda raised an index finger to her lips. At Harry's nod, she opened the heavy door.

Beyond was a short, T-shaped corridor. Another heavy door sat at the other end, which they ignored, taking a left. A worn stone staircase materialized out of the gloom, leading upwards. They crept up two flights of stairs, coming to another landing. Andromeda ignored the hallway leading away, and continued to lead him up the stairs.

As they ascended, the moisture glistening on the wall faded, as did the damp quality of the air. The cracks in the walls and floor faded away.

At the topmost landing, he saw a large piece of square white cloth hanging from the wall. From beneath the linen came the steady, rhythmic snores of deep slumber.

She had covered the paintings.

Despite the agony of his legs, a grin crept onto his face. He flashed Andromeda a thumbs-up, which earned him a small smile. She led him to a polished mahogany door at the top of the landing, which gleamed in the torchlight.

She spared him a glance, as if asking if he was ready. Harry replied with a sharp nod. Andromeda took in a deep breath, before turning the brass handle and opening the door.

Beyond the door lay an ornate hallway. The walls were dark grey blocks, cut from granite. Elaborate stone archways stretched overhead, partitioning the sections of the corridor. Suits of armor, paintings and gold-inlaid ceramic work lined the walls. Silver lamps hung from the walls, throwing off a pleasant, pulsing gold light.

Andromeda closed the door behind them, before leading him down the hall. Much like the first painting they had encountered, thick white cloth had been draped over the portraits, hiding them from view.

Their feet whispering upon the soft purple carpeting, they reached a four-way intersection, at which Andromeda took a right hand turn. At they walked, she pointed up ahead, on the right side of the hallway.

The Receiving Room.

He was almost free!

Euphoria beginning to creep into his mind, Harry let out a choked cry as Bellatrix Lestrange stepped out from the alcove hiding the door to the Receiving Room. A wide, insane smile stretched across her face, her violet eyes alight with mirth.

"Potter! Sister! Leaving so soon!" she declared, her voice full of mad cheer.

"No!" Andromeda yelled. The anguish in her voice drove her older sister into hysterics.

"Did living with the muggles addle your brains? Did you really think that I didn't know you were sneaking off to see little Potter? My, what would your mudblood husband say about your late-night trysts with itty-bitty Potter?"

"My brains are addled? You're crazier than the entire Long-Term Spell Damage ward combined!"

"You never were that intelligent, were you, sister?" Bellatrix asked, her voice dropping an octave, turning colder. "Beseeching the esteemed Black bloodline with some foul muggle-"

"Fuck you!" Andromeda snarled, cutting her sister off. "You threw your life away for some half-blooded tyrant!"

"You dare to-"

"I dare! Azkaban made your dumber, crazier, uglier, and for what? So you could crawl at his feet like a dog!"

Bellatrix, the hard lines of her face pulled taught as she let out an incoherent scream of rage, thrust her wand forward.

"_Crucio!"_

No sooner had the crimson curse left her wand, a crack echoed through the corridor. A painting of a landscape ripped itself from the wall, flying into the path of the curse. Bits of copper frame and canvas falling to the ground, Harry whirled his head around as a diminutive, squeaky voiced cried out.

"You will not be harming Andymeda!"

For a moment, Harry saw a tiny house-elf, arms raised, before it disappeared, landing behind Bellatrix. The house-elf pushed out with his hands, as a snarling Bellatrix conjured a shield. An invisible force struck the shield, pushing the middle Black sister backwards.

"Hurry, Miss Andymeda!" the house-elf urged, its large green eyes pleading with them to flee. "You must be getting out of here!"

"No!" Bellatrix screamed. "Dappy, I forbid you to do this!"

The house-elf ignored Bellatrix, pushing her pack further. With a snarl, she dropped the shield, launching a purple curse. A suit of armor stepped into its path, causing a loud gong to echo throughout the hallway, and blocking Bellatrix's line of sight.

Andromeda never hesitated, withdrawing the vial of acid from her robes. She splashed it over the doorknob to the Receiving Room, a hiss rising into the air as it began to eat through the brass.

From behind the suit of armor Bellatrix emerged, wand raised. Dappy went to raise her arms, but being close to the end of her endurance, her magic barely slowed Bellatrix. Without thinking, Harry grabbed a nearby vase and flung it as hard as he could. Her eyes focused upon her sister, Bellatrix never saw the flying white projectile. It struck her in the chest with a discordant crash, knocking her backwards.

To his left, Andromeda kicked out with one of her feet, the heel connecting with the door. The lock eaten through, it flew open.

"Harry, come on!"

He limped forward, into her waiting arms. Without warning, she tossed him into the, where he hit the marble floor with a crash. Stunned, he rolled over to see Andromeda reach into her robes.

"Miss Andymeda!" Dappy cried, followed by a loud crack. Through the doorway, Harry saw a scarlet curse fly towards Andromeda, only to be intercepted by Dappy's body. The tiny elf exploded like a bloody firecracker, spraying gore across the hallway.

Quickly, Andromeda made to jump into the room, but a yellow curse struck her in the side, blasting her out of sight. A moment later, Bellatrix ran past the doorway, screaming with rage.

Harry, his legs screaming in pain, crawled across the marble floor, out into the hallway, without a thought for his personal safety. A harsh, gagging sound echoed through the air. He turned the corner, to see Bellatrix's dark-cloaked form straddling her sister like a spider. Both of her pale, wrinkled hands were wrapped around Andromeda's throat, squeezing as hard as she could.

"How do you like that, you muggle whore? I'm going to do the same thing to your filthy, half-breed daughter!"

Andromeda, turning purple, struggled against the chokehold, but couldn't break free.

Catching one of the lengths of chain hanging from his manacle in his other hand, he leapt atop Bellatrix, wrapping the iron around her neck and pulling tight. At once Bellatrix fell backwards. The back of Harry's head hit the carpeted floor, the weight of her body crushing upon his legs eliciting a tortuous cry. Atop him, she writhed like a snake, pulling at the chain pulled taut against her throat, but Harry refused to let go.

Andromeda struggled to her feet, her face a violent red, hacking violently. Tears leaking from her eyes, she staggered towards her sister. Bellatrix tried to hit her with a purple curse, but it went wide, crashing into the wall. In front of the struggling pair, Andromeda lifted up one of her feet, before driving her boot into her sister's stomach. The strike caused the woman to let out a choked, strangled cry of pain.

Not letting up, Andromeda lashed out with a hand, knocking the wand from Bellatrix's grip and sending it flying down the hall. As his ally went chasing after it, Bellatrix pushed out with her feet, before throwing her head backwards. The back of her skull connected squarely with Harry's nose, breaking it with a crunch. Stunned by the blow, he let go of the chain. Bellatrix jumped up at once, only to see her sister with a wand pointed at her heart.

Before Lestrange could move, her feet were cut out from under her. As if speared by an invisible hook, she was upended, suspended upside down in the air. Her robes hung down, exposing deathly pale, stick-like legs.

Bellatrix curses and spit at the air, thrashing as hard as she could, but could not break the spell. To Andromeda's credit, she ignored her sister, instead opting to help a dazed Harry to his feet.

"Thanks," he said, snuffling blood through his broken nose.

Along with Bellatrix's screeches, the cries of the paintings had joined the unpleasant symphony, complaining of blindness and demanding to know what was going on.

"Anytime," she said, wrapping an arm around his midsection. "Let's get out of here."

Her head turned down to meet his gaze, Andromeda never saw her sister withdraw a gleaming silver knife from her robes.

"Get out of the way," Harry screamed, trying to push Andromeda away. With an almost casual flick, in direct opposition to her upended state, Bellatrix flung the knife forward.

For a split second, time stilled. With crystal clarity Harry saw the gleaming blade, indecipherable runic symbols carved into the silver, flying through the air.

Impossible. No way she could hit that throw.

Aimed for her heart, due to Harry's interference, the knife instead buried itself in the left side of her chest. Harry's mouth opened in equal parts shock and dismay as a pop echoed through the air as the blade perforated her lung. Gasping, she dropped the wand, her hands moving to the smooth handle sticking from her chest.

At once, Bellatrix crashed to the floor. Without thinking, Harry drove to the floor, his fingers closing around the handle. Before he could bring it up, a thick boot crushed down upon his fingers, breaking them with a brittle crack.

"Not so fast, Potter!" Bellatrix cried, triumph in her voice. She reached down, plucking the wand from his fingers, before turning it upon him.

"_Crucio!"_

White-hot knives stabbed at every inch of his skin, flaying him alive. His screams exploded through the air, almost matching his emotional agony.

They had been fucking feet from escape. A mere minutes was all it would have taken.

Thrashing upon the ground, he saw Andromeda approach her sister, staggering slowly. With a mad cackle, Bellatrix canceled the Cruciatus, before shoving her sister. Andromeda stumbled backwards, falling into a sitting position, the wall supporting her back. The hole in her chest sucked air, while blood dribbled from the corners of her mouth.

"_Accio Portkey!"_

Andromeda made a sluggish attempt to stop her, but moved far too slowly. From her robes the smooth stone sailed, landing in Bellatrix's outstretched hand. She held it up for a moment, looking at it with a cruel smile.

"So this was your grand escape plan. Pity."

With a laugh, she levitated the stone into the air. An arc of orange flame appeared, consuming the stone, leaving nothing but ash behind.

"No!" screamed Harry, pouring all his agony and frustration into the cry. She couldn't do this!

"Naughty boy, Potter," Bellatrix said with a laugh. "Baby Potter should have stayed down in his room like a good boy."

Harry wanted to rage, to rise up and pummel Bellatrix into a bloody pulp. He tried to rise from the ground, but his broken fingers collapsed, sending him spilling back to the floor.

Bellatrix's mad, lavender eyes drunk in his misery, savoring it.

"You don't know when to give up, do you? You should learn to enjoy it here, Potter, because you're never leaving."

Despite the defiance blazing in his heart, his head sunk at her words, hurting even more than the despair coursing through his nerves.

Bellatrix was right.

He would never escape.

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Author Notes:

I know this has been a long time coming, and for that I apologize. Parts of this have been written for over eight months, it was just finding the time to finish it off, with numerous other projects on my plate. Next chapter will probably take a while to surface, as I want to finish off 'The Unforgiving Minute' and start on 'Sitra Ahra' again.

The 'Imprisonment' arc has only one chapter remaining. I admit that having Harry held captive does not make the most compelling of narratives, but take solace in the fact that it is both a necessary evil, and almost over.

Thanks to the wonderful Everwild for stepping up to answer my plea. She did a fine job on this chapter, and actually made it readable.

Thanks to Grinning Lizard for his assistance with this chapter.

As always, I value feedback highly. A mere 'liked it' or 'hated it' is enough to sate my appetite for acknowledgement. All signed reviews will receive a reply at some point. Not so much for the anonymous ones.

DLP Thanks:

awinarock, gullibleboats, JimmyCranberry, Basilisk, Republic21, CheddarTrek, Tenages, T3t, Andromalius, X Kronos X8, h20, azrael, fanficlover, Thaumologist, Promios, Pirazy, sunkarapk, capo327, Swimdraconian, psihary, bugler, Dark Phoenix, Fardeki, Skykes, Indoctrine


	3. Chapter 3: The Last Light is Extinguishe

Ouroboros

Chapter 3: The Last Light is Extinguished

X-X-X-X-X-X -|- X-X-X-X-X-X -|- X-X-X-X-X-X

Inches from salvation, freedom had once again been snatched away at the last moment. Only a near-impossible toss of a knife marked the separation between Andromeda's Portkey, and lying on the plush purple carpeting, bereft of hope.

It took every inch of will to do so, but despite the protest of his aching body, Harry forced his head up, away from the blood-splattered carpeting. He planted his left palm on the ground, pushing himself up. His deteriorated legs screamed with displeasure, eliciting a wave of pain so intense it caused his vision to waver, and his stomach to churn with nausea.

Yet he still gained his feet.

As he stood wobbling, Bellatrix Lestrange visibly relaxed, placing both hands upon her hips as she let out a mad, deafening cackle.

"Don't you know you've lost, Baby Potter?" she asked, her haggard features alight with mirth.

Harry took a single step forward, nearly falling over in the process.

Of course he was fucking doomed. The Portkey had been destroyed, Andromeda was dying, and if his legs weren't healed soon, he wouldn't be far behind his benefactor.

That wasn't the point.

With a maniacal grin, Bellatrix casually waved her wand. Harry's feet flew out from under him as he was lifted into the air, floating several feet above the floor. He tried to fight against the levitating force, but suspended in air, he only succeeded in useless flailing.

"Let me down!"

"Patience, Potter," crooned Bellatrix as she walked forward. Like a banner Harry floated before her, helpless.

The door to the Receiving Room, it's lock and handle fully eaten away by the acid, swung inward under pressure from his body. He caught a single glimpse of gleaming marble before he was thrown forward. In mid-air he turned, before being slammed into an uncomfortable chair. The breath was forced from his lungs, filling his chest with pain.

Short of breath, he tried to rise, but a length of slender chain erupted from Bellatrix's wand. It flew towards Harry, before encircling him in a constrictive embrace. Links of metal pressed hard against the arms, chest, stomach and legs, so tight that he could barely breathe.

"Don't go anywhere, Potter," Bellatrix almost sang, before exiting the room, a spring in her step.

In the madwoman's absence, Harry's eyes darted about the room, trying to soak in every detail, to determine if any advantage could be gained from his surroundings.

A fifteen foot square, the centerpiece of the white-walled room, was a dais in the middle of the marble floor. The circular platform was constructed from a gleaming silver metal without blemish. Inlaid into the marble floor surrounding the dais was a circle of solid gold, which looked life molten holy fire by the silver torchlight. In all probability the interior of the golden circle was where the Wards had been lifted.

Little fucking good it did him without the Portkey in hand.

The rest of the room offered a similar amount of hope. A wide, pristine, white-bricked fireplace, the gleaming silver tools beside it and the gem-crusted box upon the marble mantle were all equally barren. Weapons that were useless without hands, and Floo Powder that was worthless without the password.

Left with no other option, Harry struggled against his bonds, but could not gain a single inch of wiggle room. As he fought, Andromeda's tortured gasps floated in through the hallway, growing closer with every breath. The sounds of something heavy being dragged accompanied her dying breaths, each one tugging at Harry's soul.

Andromeda Tonks had selflessly volunteered to help him escape, and all it had gotten her was a deflated lung. In essence, she was going to die for him.

And it would all be for nothing.

The broken door was flung open, allowing Bellatrix to back her way into the room. Within her clenched fists were handfuls of dark brown hair.

"Come on Andy, it's almost time!" declared Lestrange, giving another pull. Dragged by her long hair, Andromeda entered the room, violent coughs spraying mists of blood. The woman's struggles were faint, almost passive as he was pulled to the center of the white marble floor, leaving a crimson trail in her wake.

"I'm so sorry I dragged you into this," Harry gasped, guilt flooding his conscience. His failed benefactor turned her head towards the sound of his voice. He met her warm, caramel eyes, and saw hopelessness and regret reflected within the twin orbs. Slowly, as if summoning forth the last of her will, she opened her mouth to speak.

"Gggaaa…."

A blood bubble formed upon her lips, stealing her words. In stood above her mouth for a moment, before popping, splashing more scarlet over her ashen features.

Their eye contact was broken as Bellatrix let go of her sister's hair, allowing her skull to bounce off the floor with a sickening thud.

"You should be sorry, Baby Potter," crooned Bellatrix as she knelt over his sister. "If not for your meddling, your little Mudblood whore might have evaded our Lord's grasp for a little while longer."

While Harry fumed, Lestrange reached down and swept Andromeda's sweat-soaked hair away from her eyes, tucking it behind her ears. The dying woman shied away from the touch, moving her head away an inch.

"Oh, did that hurt? I can be so clumsy sometimes," she purred, before moving her right hand to the silver handle protruding from Andromeda's chest. "Maybe this will help take your mind off it, okay?"

In a blur of motion, Bellatrix ripped the knife free, a long arc of crimson following the blade's path. Her younger sister involuntarily folded in two, gasping wheezes erupting from both her mouth and the ragged hole in her chest.

Bellatrix let the knife fall to the ground, withdrawing her wand and launching a spell. It slammed into Andromeda, causing her legs and arms to snap straight to her side in rigid posture.

"Just leave her alone!" yelled Harry. His captor turned back towards him for a moment, her gaze speculative. After a moment's pause, she dropped him a wink, before falling gently to her knees.

Blood dripping from its blade, Bellatrix picked up the silver knife and held it in the air, all while looking down on her sister.

"I know you can hear me," she whispers, violet eyes wide with anticipation. "And I want to tell you how wonderful it is to finally make you useful. All your life you've spat upon your heritage, lain with Mudbloods, producing impure, wretched spawn. Well, now you're finally going to play a role. A small part, but vital, nonetheless."

With her opposite hand, Bellatrix flicked her wand. A loud rip cut through the air as Andromeda's robes tore down the middle, the bloodstained garments falling to either side of her frozen form. Knickers and bra were both saturated with crimson, a ragged hole torn through one of the cups where the knife had entered.

"Muggle garbage," sneered the older sister. "Did your precious Mudblood dress you in these?"

Left without a voice, the question went unanswered. Expecting nothing less, Bellatrix leaned over her sister and began to carve into the flesh of her solar plexus with the point of the blade. The cuts were shallow, the slashes connecting to form an unfamiliar runic shape. Sluggish blood flowed from the wound, dripping down the sides of her exposed upper body.

Bellatrix chanted as she cut, the tongue unfamiliar, the words causing Harry's flesh to crawl. The air itself grew heavy as crimson light began to radiate from the mysterious sigil, bathing the room in an unholy light.

"Don't do this!" screamed Harry, dread filling his mind. The ritual was unfamiliar, but he could feel the taint of Dark Magic in the air, like a demon lurking unseen. "Please, stop!"

Ignoring his cries, Bellatrix raised her wand, Conjuring a silver goblet. She placed the cup on the floor, before waving her wand in a series of complicated arcs. As if gravity had been reversed, flecks of blood began to rise from the Andromeda's hair, body and robes. The stains around her mouth disappeared as the drops of blood coalesced into a sphere, which floated two feet off the floor.

She spared her sister one last look of equal parts triumph and hunger, before holding the cup aloft, capturing the sphere between its silver walls. Bellatrix swirls the chalice a single time, before bringing it to her lips.

Like a cat at a saucer she supped at the blood as if it were a fine vintage. The crimson light intensified while growing darker, as if swallowing the silver torchlight.

Harry let out an involuntary gasp as the soft, unblemished pale flesh of Andromeda's torso mottled and wrinkled, becoming loose on her petite frame. The faintest suggestion of lines grew into cragged mountains, the corneas surrounding her terrified, caramel eyes yellowed.

As rapidly as Andromeda aged, time traveled in the opposite direction for her older sister, stripping away the years. Lank, ragged hair regained its black sheen, lengthening and straightening to a perfect tapestry of coal locks. Heavy lines and crow's feet smoothed, restoring her aristocratic high cheekbones, each dashed with a faint blush, completing her flawless complexion.

Through a slit riding the side of her robes, he saw the dark blue piping of veins floating just beneath the skin of her legs recede as her calves gained definition and muscle tone.

Bellatrix lowered the cup slightly as reddened, luscious lips formed into an 'O' shape, allowing a moan of ecstasy to escape. A shudder wracked her frame before she raised the cup back up.

Frozen in place, unable to tear his eyes away from the horror, Harry bore witness to Andromeda's body shriveling, her skin turning to leather. Hair drained of all color thinned and fell from her skull, forming a pile of thin white strands. Her withered lips peeled back across her face, revealing gums receded all the way to the jaw, and the brown husks of her teeth.

The air grew even heavier, almost as if he were swimming, the crimson light darkening further. In the scant illumination, he saw Andromeda's eyes disintegrate, leaving behind only black sockets. Her skin began to flake and dissolve like running sand.

His vision fixed upon the death of his promised savior, a clang of steel caused his heart to nearly burst within his chest. Bellatrix, who had stolen time itself from her sister, leaving her looking no older than twenty, paid little heed to the empty silver cup rolling at her feet, instead stood with her eyes closed.

"What did you do?!" screamed Harry, the impact breaking his paralysis. "What did you do?!"

At his screams, Bellatrix opened her eyes. All traces of Azkaban had been purged, leaving bright violet orbs bursting with an unhinged light, a stark contrast to the porcelain corneas. A second shudder worked its way down her frame as she took a single step forward, eyes blazing with a feral hunger. She ran a delicate, pink tongue along the upper ridges of her pearly white teeth, before her hands lowered to her sash, undoing it.

The thick robes fell away from her shoulders, pooling upon the marble floor. Harry froze before another reprimand left his lips, transfixed by the sight.

Thoughts of Andromeda's sadistic end, the torture he had endured, the inevitability of his own death; they all fled before the perfection before him.

In stark detail he drank in all of her, from the high, gravity-defying thrust of her generous cleavage, tipped with tiny buds of coral, to her wide, swaying hips, to the thatch of short, silky black hair nestled between her long, shapely legs.

"What was it you called me before, Potter?" she purred, stalking closer. "A fucking ugly hag, was that it?"

Harry tore his eyes away from her lithe form, his mind tainted by self-loathing at the blood being re-directed to his nether regions.

"Get away from me, you psychotic cunt!" he screamed, slamming his eyes shut. He would not succumb to her, not this bitch, after all she had put him through.

"Baby Potter," she crooned. "It's okay to look. I won't tell. After all, I'm not so ugly anymore, am I?"

Even her voice acted as an aphrodisiac, thickening the saliva within his throat. Disgusted with himself, he spat.

"Look at me," commanded Bellatrix, her voice husky.

"Fuck you!" he screamed, pouring forth every bit of hate he could conjure into the two simple words.

"Look at me, Potter."

Harry scrunched his eyes even tighter, his eyelids aching under the strain. Despite his efforts, they flew open of their own accord, to see Bellatrix standing a mere foot away, lowering her wand.

Unable to look away, his direct line of sight was level with the pink, crinkled flesh of her nipples, hardened in arousal. A wicked smile crossing her features, she reached out with her left hand and began to rub the front of his pants.

Harry let out a hiss of air as his hips greedily strained forward, paying no regard to the chain tethering him in place.

"G-g-get the fuck away from he!" he gasped, but his body played the role of traitor well, his erection straining against the confines of his pants.

"Your bits speak the truth your mouth won't," she said with a cruel chuckle, before her hand moved upwards. Bellatrix didn't bother with the button or zipper, she merely reached inside his waistband.

Harry's nerves lit as she wrapped a soft hand around his hardened length, squeezing down. The pressure caused him to gasp, sending threads of pleasure coursing through his body.

Despite the protest of his hormones, he tried to jerk away from her touch, but only succeeding in building more friction with her hand. She let out a throaty laugh and made a first around him, moving up and down.

Helpless, he let out a cry of mingled frustration and anguish. He hated Bellatrix with every fiber of his being, but his body was Judas, screaming for the touch of the woman who murdered his Sirius and Andromeda.

"Don't fight it," urged Bellatrix as her hand worked faster. "You belong to me now, Baby Potter."

An all-encompassing hunger filling her eyes, she whipped her wand forward. Wood creaked as Harry's world tilted a quarter-revolution, the back of the chair now parallel to the floor, pointing his face at the domed marble ceiling. Out of sight, he heard a wand clatter to the floor.

"You're mine!" Bellatrix hissed as her right hand snaked towards the chain wrapped around his chest. She pulled herself up, planting a foot astride each side of his body.

"Mine!" she said, like an incantation, staring down at him with clouded violet eyes, her long coal tresses tickling his chest. With her left hand she pulled his manhood from his breeches.

Harry shook with equal parts rage and lust as she stroked him a few more times, before lowering herself. She rubbed his cock against a warm, sopping moistness, before letting herself fall.

A gasp escaped her lips as she impaled herself upon him. Harry let out a sob as his length was engulfed within her wet folds, his psyche at war.

The velvet walls between her legs encircled his manhood, cocooning it, milking him as she moved up and down, her moans filling the air. Though his body was awash in pleasure, rage and humiliation tore at his sanity.

Deep, throaty moans lit the air as Bellatrix moved a second hand to the chain, using it as leverage to bounce herself harder and deeper.

"That's it, you filthy Mudblood! Fuck me!"

Perfect globes jiggled and bounced with every thrust, their motion transfixing him. A wave of lust burying his mind, an urge to reach out and cup the twins, to squeeze the coral, hardened nipples between his fingers came unbidden.

"Fuck me, Potter!" screamed his captor, slamming herself down with hardened vigor, the echo of their colliding flesh bouncing off the walls. Under Bellatrix's onslaught, he felt a vast clinching of the nerves, as if he stood on the brink of an endless abyss of pleasure.

"Yes!" she screamed, giving one final bounce, pushing him over the edge. A supernova of ecstasy careened through his body as he shot his seed deep into her womb. Harry screamed as he emptied, unprepared for the intensity of his orgasm.

Bellatrix, her eyes purple fire, began to pump away again, prolonging the final frantic moment. A knowing gleam reflected in her eyes, fully aware of the psychological wounds she had just inflicted.

"You belong to me," she purred. "Mind, body and soul."

Harry, filled to the brim with hate, opened his mouth to yell, but her nether lips constricted around him, drawing a moan instead.

"Mine."

A satisfied smirk crossing her features, she contorted her body, reaching to the floor without raising her hips. When she rose back up, her wand was clutched in her hands, the tip pointed straight at his head.

"Pleasant dreams, baby Potter. Don't you worry, Auntie Bellatrix will be back to see you when she can."

"_Stupefy."_

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Harry awoke to the familiar darkness of the cell beneath Malfoy Manor. The absence of light, the cold chill and the persistent drip of water were his steadfast companions, just as they had been during his first term of imprisonment. Even the burning pain of his chafed wrists, tightly bound within manacles suspended in the air remained the same.

It was he who had changed.

He wished he could have taken Bellatrix's assault as a good thing. That if he ever escaped, he could be the first of the other Gryffindor Sixth-Years to reach the coveted plateau of getting a girl to go all the way. That he could boast to his gathered classmates that a woman of unrivaled beauty had wanted him so bad she had been soaking wet.

It was just a wish, though.

Bellatrix had taken something innocent, untainted, the daydream of every adolescent and turned it around, twisted it into nightmare form. Every single moment which should have been viewed with fond remembrance had been perverted.

It was not the softness of her skin he recalled most vividly, or the velvet sheath at the juncture of her thighs, but the hatred. Each bounce of her hips had filled him with poison, so much that if it began to seep from his pores, there'd be enough to drown the world.

"Starting with her," he whispered, his voice shaking with rage. Lestrange had taken his freedom, his once chance of escape, and now his innocence. Death was a kindness too merciful for her.

If he could have escapade, her torment would be without end. The Prophecy, Voldemort, the Order; they could all wait.

Vengeance was all that mattered.

"But what about…" whispered a small voice, from deep within the recesses of his mind.

"Shut up! Shut up!" screamed Harry, trying to drown out the voice, unwilling to hear. His shrieks echoed throughout the dungeon as he thrashed again his bonds, desperately trying to break his chains. If he could, he'd bash his own fucking head in, just to destroy the traitorous, maddening sector of his brain.

The part which wanted to fuck Bellatrix again more than anything else in the world.

It flew in the face of all reason, with all the torment she had heaped upon him, time and time again, but lust burned in his body, in direct opposition to the hatred boiling in his heart. He felt the moorings of his mind fray beneath the strain of the dichotomy, unable to reconcile the two halves.

Recall of the worst memories of his life did nothing. The surprise in Sirius' eyes at he fell backwards through the Veil; Bellatrix's insane cackle echoing through the sunken pit as Neville writhed beneath her Cruciatus Curse; the rivulets of blood running the corners of Andromeda's mouth.

Each instance kept the flames of hatred stoked, though did nothing to stem the mingled lust and self-disgust.

"Fucking hell," he swore, feeling more helpless than ever.

If Voldemort didn't break him, it would only be because his mind had done it to itself first.

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Echoes in darkness roused Harry from shallow slumber. A steady clacking sound that saturated the desolate dungeons, approaching at an even pace.

Bellatrix.

Lust boiled in his loins, in direct conflict with the self-hatred and disgust soiling his mind. No matter how many times he considered the logical disgust of his wants, lust always made its voice heard. How was it even possible to be fundamentally fucked up on such a deep level?

"Wakey wakey," crooned Bellatrix, peering at him through the barred windows. Delicate, porcelain features bathed in torchlight, she would have been angelic, if not for the shadow of madness lurking in her gaze.

Harry had no answer, not trusting himself to speak. Pure hate, anger, or even worse, a plea for her touch; he didn't know which form his reply might take.

The heavy door creaked open, rusted hinges squealing. Light poured through the threshold, casting her lithe form as a silhouette.

"Did baby Potter miss his Auntie?" asked the darkened shape, stalking closer. Harry closed his eyes against the bright light, offering no response. Slow, ponderous footsteps inched closer, closing the distance to a few feet. He considered trying to knock her teeth out with a kick, but discarded the notion. Without leverage, the best he'd be able to do was land a cursory blow.

"Is the itty-bitty baby giving me the silent treatment?" she asked, as if admonishing a child. Harry maintained his silence and dropped his head towards the floor. Inching his eyes open, he fixed his gaze on the damp, greenish stone at his feet.

A hand grasped under his chin, forcing it upwards to Bellatrix's face. Violet eyes regarded him with amusement, while a cruel smile grew wider.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you to look at people when they're talking to you? Oh, she didn't, that's right," the woman said with a light chuckle. "Perhaps your Auntie will have to educate you further? How would you like that, baby Potter?"

Her hand moved upwards, caressing his cheek. Ignoring the warm flush spreading into his face, Harry snapped his head to the side, biting down. Bellatrix, as if expecting his actions, drew her hand back, saving two of her fingers.

Harry flung a defiant glare at his captor, but Bellatrix didn't seem perturbed his actions. If anything, she looked pleased as she raised her index finger, waggling it towards him.

"Baby Potter is going to learn how to play nice," she chastised, before reaching into a pocket and withdrawing her wand. She swept it across her body, as if swinging a tennis racket.

An invisible wave of force slammed into Harry's right cheek, causing a hollow crack to echo through the tiny cell. The coppery taste of blood and hard chips filled his mouth as pain exploded through his face. The agony was so potent that he grayed out for a moment, before spitting out a lumpy mixture of blood and dislodged chips of teeth.

"Remember, Potter: You're mine," she purred. Harry, his head throbbing, head down, let out a grunt, unwilling to move his mouth. Footsteps rang out as Bellatrix began to circle him. Harry tried to track her movements, but his entire head throbbed like a rotting tooth, making it difficult to concentrate.

Without warning hands laid themselves upon his hips, before encircling his midsection. The pleasant weight of her cleavage pressed into his back as she embraced him, while laying her head upon his left shoulder. Warm, moist lips suckled at the nape of his neck, temporarily blotting out the pain, eliciting a moan. She worked upwards, until her hot breath was upon his ear.

"You don't have any choice in this," Bellatrix whispered, while her hand began to drift downwards. "Remember, you're mine. Nothing more than a passive observer. If I want to leave you alone to rot down here, I will."

Trailing fingers a hair's breadth from his straining hardness suddenly withdrew as she pulled away. The void of her warm embrace was filled by cold, drawing a gasp of despair. For a brief moment, he nearly cried out, before she stepped back forward, resuming her ministrations.

Though his body responded, his mind recoiled in hatred. Was this what he had been reduced too?

Her fingers snaked downward, under his waistband. A small, smooth hand encircled his length and began to slowly stroke, sending waves of pleasure radiating out from his core.

"If I want to fuck you, I will," she breathed, before releasing her grip on his manhood. Both of her hands slid around and began to pull down, divesting him of his trousers. Bile bubbled in his throat, overwhelming the roar of his hormones. The moment she drew away, Harry threw his head back, hoping to smash her nose in.

She evaded the blow, before grasping the sides of his head, forcing it to the side.

"And if I want you to suffer, you will," she whispered in his ear canal, before her lips moved downward.

"Fuck y-aaggghh!"

Hard incisors bit down upon his ear, setting it alight with pain. He screamed as Bellatrix spat onto the floor, letting out mad peals of laughter. Blood spilled from the wound, running down his neck, soaking into his shirt.

"When are you going to give up, baby Potter?" asked Bellatrix as she moved into his vision, dark blood smearing her mouth and chin. "You are completely helpless, and can do nothing unless I allow you! When will you see?!"

"N-never," spat Harry, ignoring the pain speech caused. Even though the final night at Privet Drive seemed to be millions of years ago, he had not forgotten the oath he had taken as Voldemort approached. Until he had no breath left to spare, he would fight.

Rather than being incensed at his defiance, sheer joy shone upon Bellatrix's features.

"Thank you, Baby Potter," she whispered, a grateful smile gracing her features. "You don't know how happy that makes me."

Even in his tormented state, Harry found he still possessed the capacity to be surprised.

"Most wizards I can break in a day," she stated casually, as if discussing the weather. "A few rounds of the Cruciatus, solitary confinement, and they're ready to spill their deepest secrets. Even some Aurors don't last longer than a week. But you, Potter…"

Her grin spread wider, blooming into a full-fledged smile, which would have been flawless if not for the bloodstains upon her teeth. Bellatrix swayed closer as he spoke, running a pink tongue over the ridges of her canines.

"You have not disappointed me yet. Whatever drives you, whether its hatred, a thirst for vengeance or even misguided hope…it's beautiful to behold."

The gap between the two closed to a few feet, Harry spat out a mouthful of mingled blood and saliva. The front of her dark, filmy robes was splattered, but she took no offense from his defiance, letting out a small cackle.

"As I said before, baby Potter, I will break you," she promised, closing the distance to a foot. "But before all is said and done, you may just prove to be my most entertaining plaything."

Harry was lost within her violet-eyed gaze as she moved her head close, planting a chaste kiss upon his lips. For a moment he floundered, but before he thought to chew her face off, Bellatrix ended the kiss.

"Thank you," she breathed, before drifting downward, every inch of her body running along his hardness. He wanted to rebel, to dish out some sort of punishment, but both pain and vindictiveness vanished as she hooked her hands into his trousers, pulling them down.

Freed from the confines of his pants, cool air met his erection as it bobbed in the air, before she wrapped a soft, gentle hand around it. With careful, delicate strokes she moved downward, squeezing gingerly upon reaching the head. Pleasure flooded his senses, obliterating the agony of his broken cheekbone and chewed ear. His hips began to jerk greedily forward with each stroke, as if possessed of minds of their own.

"Do you like that, baby Potter?" she asked, her voice husky. His eyes closed, for a brief moment, defiance rose from the sea of bliss immersing him, but a hard squeeze from Bellatrix doused his mind's rally.

"Then you're going to love this," she promised, before fabric began to whisper. Her hand pumped upward, stopping shy of the head, before a warm, wet heat engulfed the tip. His eyes flew open as he let out an involuntary gasp.

Bellatrix, knelt before him, sitting upon her heels, lips wrapped around his engorged head. For a brief moment her violet gaze caught his, before she lowered her eyes, fans of black hair obscuring her ministration. A shudder passed through his body as she swirled her tongue beneath the underside, before taking him deeper into her mouth.

Groans lit into the air he sunk to the hilt in her wet, willing mouth, not unlike the velvet softness of her cunt. Friction gripped every inch of his erection as she began to moving her head up and down, her lips maintaining constant contact. All emotion fled, leaving behind lust. The rest of the world disappeared, leaving behind his cock and Bellatrix's mouth as the only things of substance in the universe.

With her other hand his captor began to squeeze and knead at his bits gently, bringing the stirring pressure in his loins to the boiling point. Light-headed, he barely perceived Bellatrix relinquish her grip on his bits.

Without warning she pushed away from Harry, leaving him a single stroke shy of ejaculation. He let out a cry of frustration, only to have it die in the air at the silver dagger clasped within her hand.

The same weapon used to murder Andromeda.

Harry tried to draw back, but she lunged forward, swiping the blade through the air. Runes carved into the blade shone as it arced low, towards his heel. With a tearing sound the dagger sliced through both of his heels. His screams lit into the air as the ragged ends of the severed Achilles tendons poured blood. Pain equal to the Cruciatus radiated from the back of his foot as the weight of his body pressed down on the injury.

"I wouldn't put too much weight on those, baby Potter," crooned Bellatrix as she rose to her feet, wearing a wide smirk.

An anguish cry filled the cell as Harry screamed. He was unable to articulate the depths of his pain and hatred, fueled even further by the angry seed swirling within his loins.

His reaction only served to please Bellatrix, who backed away to the door.

"See you tomorrow, Baby Potter."

She let out one more cackle, before closing the door behind her. Nauseous with pain, Harry did his best to pull himself up, relieving the strain upon severed tendons, but even through the torment, he knew it was only a matter of time before his arms gave out.

The light faded from the world, plunging him back into a dark void.

And in the darkness, Harry Potter brooded, dreams of brutally murdering Bellatrix the only distraction from the all-encompassing agony.

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In the solitary dark Harry hung from the ceiling, the chain pulling taunt against his wrists. Long ago the heavy manacles had cut through his flesh, causing rivulets of blood to flow down his arm, soaking into his shirt. After hours of suspension, his upper body was almost numb.

The same could not be said for his feet. Even hanging limply from the ceiling, allowing his wrists to bear the brunt of his weight, the severed tendons howled with every movement, no matter how small.

Unable to reach down and pull up his pants, a glance down showed that his bits had nearly shriveled back into his body, seeking out the last vestiges of warmth.

It was fucking humiliating.

Being tortured, made to feel inhuman amounts of pain was one thing…but what Bellatrix had inflicted upon him felt was an even deep violation. Worse, as absurd as it sounded.

As little as a month ago, Harry wouldn't have believed it if someone suggested otherwise, but after experiencing it himself…she was breaking down his mental defenses, weakening him. Even as he screamed when the pain became too unbearable, his thoughts would eventually drift towards the potent ache in his groin, to once again bury himself in her warm depths.

His mind had split into two distinct halves, each existing simultaneously. The first longed for her to come back, to finish the job she started. The other shunned her very name, and set about to plotting his revenge, each ploy more unlikely than the last.

Bellatrix had been right. There was no way he could ever escape. Dumbledore had sent a spy in, and Andromeda had failed. If the Headmaster had any contingency, up to and including storming Malfoy Manor, it would have been enacted by now.

He was on his own.

With no hope of escape, he had only one remaining thing to hold above Voldemort's head.

The prophecy.

The Dark Lord claimed that he had the power to pluck Professor Trelawney's words from his head, but the more time passed, the more Harry doubted the claim. Voldemort was patient, but with the truth within his grasp, why bother waiting? Why not just tear it from his mind? Was he incapable of doing so?

If so, it would explain why he was still alive, and why Bellatrix was trying to 'break' him. To smash him down into such a weak mental state that he would spill the contents of the prophecy when asked.

Fighting that one request, to deny the Dark Lord what he wanted…that was the only true battle remaining for Harry. His fingers might be removed, his eyes plucked out, his guts spilled upon the floor, but if he could keep the prophecy a secret, he would still be the victor.

A pyrrhic victory, but to forever deny Voldemort the knowledge he sought was the only remaining solace, the only factor which kept him on his feet, fighting against Bellatrix the best he could.

A losing battle, but the only avenue of defiance he had left.

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The room was warm, suffocating. Hard to breathe. In the heat his arms began to melt like tallow, falling to the floor with wet splats.

He was free!

Harry let out a delirious laugh, and took a step forward. Visions of leaving the cell playing through his head, he was jerked backwards as the chain caught on the eyebolt. Agony ripped through his nerves as he shuffled his feet to keep his balance.

Reality came flooding back upon the wings of the pain. He still had arms, which were shackled to heavy manacles, fastened to the ceiling.

He was trapped in a dark cell, within which he would mostly likely die.

If Bellatrix didn't do something soon, he was going to be in serious trouble. He had been fading in-and-out too often to tell with any accuracy, but if his parched throat was any indication, it had been at least a day since her last visit. A pungent, fungal smell permeated the air. Drained of all optimism, Harry guessed that due to the damp atmosphere and lack of dressing, the twin slices through his Achilles Tendons were becoming gangrenous.

It was a grim, faint hope, but Harry almost wished that they'd forget about him. Once the fever spread, he'd be incoherent, but freed from the constant torment Bellatrix had piled upon him. Unless the sickness robbed him of any defiance, and caused him to casually part with the contents of the Prophecy.

Before he could mull over the subject further, a faraway echo caught his attention. Ears strained, he heard the furious clack of footfalls upon stone. Unlike the leisurely pace that Bellatrix normally set, like a cat stalking a crippled mouse, the approaching person was almost running.

Either something very good, or very bad, was about to happen.

Light briefly appeared in the corridor, before the door to his cell was flung open, banging against the outer wall. Bellatrix stormed through the threshold, wand drawn. Her eyes were narrowed, the pupils wide as she jabbed her wand forward, a snarl upon her lips.

"_Crucio!"_

All other injuries were forgotten as liquid fire filled each and every one of his nerve endings. Like a fish plucked from the sea and dumped upon the ground Harry flopped. A second stretched out to a thousand years, trapping him within an endless construct of pain.

Like a frightened animal his mind tried to retreat from the curse, but had nowhere to run.

And without warning, it ended.

Harry slumped against his bonds, pulling in deep gasps of air. Bone-deep aches penetrated his entire body, which continued to spasm. Anguished, he looked up, to see Bellatrix staring down at him.

There was no playfulness in her eyes, none of the glee that accompanied her visits. Only determination and a wild, swirling emotion he couldn't place.

His mouth played the part of traitor before he could think, spilling words into the air.

"No, please, no more, I can't-"

Not bothering to answer, she launched a spell at his legs. Harry shrank from the spell, expecting the worse, but his legs locked into place, like a Body-Bind applied only to the lower body. She dropped to the ground at once, before pulling his trousers up in one smooth motion. Bellatrix inspected him for a moment, before stepping back, apparently satisfied.

Wondering what was going on, Harry opened his mouth to ask, before the clack of boots upon stone met his ears. The pace was steady, but deliberate, free from the hurry that Bellatrix had displayed.

At once the truth came to him, sending a shiver of fear down his spine.

Bellatrix was making him presentable for her master.

Voldemort was coming.

As the footsteps grew louder, the sharp edge of Harry's fear began to dull, leaving behind a hollow shell of apprehension.

Nothing was going to change. He was in physical agony now, and the Dark Lord's arrival wasn't going to improve the situation. Voldemort would torture him, and demand the prophecy.

At the thought of losing the prophecy, the one true bit of leverage he still possed, he tried to summon forth the familiar rage. It was sole shield against the horrors he had faced, the righteous fire that had kept him going through the early days of his imprisonment, the fury that had led him to resist Bellatrix at every opportunity.

He was unable. Even the imminent arrival of the Dark Lord, the creature responsible for his incarceration, the most feared wizard in Britain, couldn't conjure the flames.

A sharp pain dug into his arms. Turning his head, he saw that Bellatrix had dug her spade-like nails into his upper arms.

"You will show the Dark Lord every respect."

"Or what?" questioned Harry in a listless voice. At a loss for a reply, she merely hissed in anger, digging her nails deeper into the arm. She punctured the skin, drawing small beads of blood, but she let go quickly, dropping to the ground in a subservient bow.

The gaunt, emaciated form of the Dark Lord filled the doorway. Crimson eyes burning, he stepped through the threshold, like a pale wraith. The nostrils of the flat, snake-like face flared as he walked in, gaze fixed upon Harry.

"My Lord," murmured Bellatrix.

"Rise, my faithful servant," said Voldemort dismissively, not bothering to spare her a glance, the whole of his attention focused on Harry. He strode forward, until only a few feet separated the two. Voldemort studied him, like a scientist contemplating an animal he was about to dissect.

Unsurprisingly, Harry felt some of his fear begin to return.

"Potter," he rasped through papery lips. "I trust that Bellatrix has been an attentive host."

The unexpected question, not to mention the unintentional innuendo behind it, brought a snort from Harry, who was on the verge of cracking up despite his terror.

Attentive was certainly one way to put it.

The ghost of a smirk vanished from Voldemort face. Crimson eyes narrowed, he turned towards Bellatrix.

"Was I mistaken in assigning you to this task?" he demanded.

"No!" she vehemently denied, shaking her head. "I am your most faithful-"

"And most disappointing," Voldemort finished. Distraught, Bellatrix began to pull and tug at her own hair.

At her anguish, a smirk grew across Harry's features. There had been precious little to cheer Harry since his final night at Privet Drive, but seeing Bellatrix dressed down by her master did the trick.

"I…I will try harder, my Lord," she said with a deep bow.

"Will you know? You have had three weeks to try hard with Potter, and I see that he remains as defiant as ever. Three weeks down in a dark cell, helpless, chained up. Surely he hasn't proven too much to handle?"

Harry burst out in laughter, unable to contain himself any longer. The sounds echoed within the enclosed space, amplifying it. Bellatrix, fury blazing in her violet eyes, surged forward, wand drawn and raised. With a maniacal grin Harry watched her draw closer, exhilaration coursing through his veins.

"Bellatrix," called Voldemort softly. Bellatrix, her pale face filled with hot blood, her lips pulled back into a snarl, froze in place.

"Turn around."

"…Yes, my Lord," she choked out, before turning around. As she moved, Voldemort drew his wand with almost supernatural speed, and trained it upon his servant.

"_Crucio."_

The curse struck Bellatrix in the face, dropping her to the floor. Upon the damp ground she writhed and screamed, as if possessed. Her cries were like soothing, uplifting choirs to Harry's eyes. He laughed with joy, drinking in the sight with hungry eyes, nearly euphoric at the sight of her agony.

For a moment, he even forgot his own pain.

Far too quickly Voldemort cancelled the curse.

"Do not fail me again," he rasped, before turning to Harry. "I admit, I am surprised to see you remain sane. Most do not last long under Bellatrix's tender care."

"Maybe she's lost her touch," replied Harry in a bored, uninterested tone. As if she was unworthy of mention.

Upon the floor Bellatrix's muscles continued to spasm, courtesy of the Cruciatus Curse's after effect. Anger and humiliation were written on her face, but she seethed silently.

"Time shall tell, Potter," Voldemort stated, a small leer crossing his snake-like features, the likes of which would weaken the stoutest of hearts. "But I am patient, Potter. Everything breaks. Everything. It may take a week, a month, a year, it makes no difference. One day you shall kneel before me, begging for release."

"Beg you? I don't think so."

Voldemort replied not with words, but with another Cruciatus Curse, moving so quickly Harry never even saw the spell strike. One moment he was standing, the next thousands of infinitely small knives stabbed at his flesh. Held up by his shackles, he thrashed like a puppet, all rational thought vanished.

After what seemed like an hour, Voldemort ended the curse. Free from the blinding pain, Harry sagged against his bonds, taking large gulps of air to control his breathing.

"You forget your place. Count yourself fortunate that Bellatrix has been less than diligent in her duties, but I am confident she shall re-double her efforts. Starting tomorrow."

"Yes, my Lord," answered Bellatrix as she peeled herself off of the floor. Without further preamble he began to walk out of the room, Bellatrix trailing behind him. At the door he stopped, turning to fix his crimson gaze upon Harry one last time.

"Remember, Potter: Everything breaks."

"Everything."

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In darkened silence Harry stood for an indeterminable amount of time. His nerves still twitched from exposure to Cruciatus Curse, but it was a mere discomfort to the agony that was the back of his maimed feet. A smell wafted into the air, one of rot, of decay, one that Harry could only associated with one thing.

Death.

Yet, despite the occasional post-Cruciatus twinge, a stray lance of brief pain which occurred without warning, Harry was heartened by Voldemort's last visit, more so that he had been since the day of Andromeda's failed rescue attempt.

For the first time in a while, Harry once again saw the vague specter of hope.

When Voldemort claimed to have left the responsibility of torture in Bellatrix's hands, he wasn't just speaking of the time she spent in the darkened cell, but everything.

The Dark Lord had no idea that Harry had been a few feet away from escaping.

It was hard to say with any certainty, but in his estimation, Voldemort might not have even set foot in Malfoy Manor since Harry's first day in the dark cells, being too occupied by other matters.

Had Voldemort been intent of marching down to the dungeon and intimidating Harry into relinquishing the secret of the prophecy?

If so, things clearly did not go according to plan. Bellatrix's failures had incensed the Dark Lord, driving him to deal with his servant more harshly than his prisoner.

At first glance, Harry supposed that perhaps Voldemort dealt harsh love to all of his underlings, but now he was no longer sure, keeping in mind recent history. Bellatrix, despite having the advantage of numbers and skill, had failed to secure the prophecy at the Department of Mysteries. During Voldemort's fall, she had failed to aid her Master, allowing herself to seek vengeance and fall into Ministry custody. And now, she had failed to break Harry's mind.

How many more failures would Voldemort accept?

Would he have accepted Harry's near escape? Would have be understanding that in the excitement and euphoria of a younger body, she had defiled her womb with his seed?

In all probability, the answer 'no', which improved his bargaining standpoint.

Regardless of the torture inflicted, Voldemort had done nothing permanent in nature. Bellatrix had been cruel, but not once had dragged him to death's doorstep. He was too valuable to waste.

Voldemort couldn't kill him without learning the contents of the prophecy, a protection that Bellatrix did not enjoy. She was no different than any of the other Death Eaters, whether they were Lucius, Crouch Jr., or any other servant that had taken a fall for Voldemort's cause. His Death Eaters were chess pieces, to be casually tossed aside when they no longer provided a tactical advantage.

Was Bellatrix in more danger than he was?

If so, he might have an ace in the hole. As fanatically dedicated as Bellatrix was, Harry had seen the expression on her face, the eyes that had swirled with guilt, shame and pain at failing her master.

Was there a way to turn that fact to his advantage? And what would Bellatrix do to preserve her Lord's favor?

She would never turn her back on Voldemort and let Harry go, but would she make some sort of concession in exchange for his silence?

Harry couldn't say much in either directon.

All that mattered that was for the first time since his return to the cells, he felt something almost alien to this place of suffering.

Hope.

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Left without the means to tell time, Harry couldn't even hazard a guess at how long he had been left alone. Nor would he bother trying.

If asked prior to Voldemort last visit, he would have said with absolute certainty that months separated the present from his arrival at Malfoy Manor, but if the Dark Lord's claims were true, it had only been three weeks.

So when the familiar collision of boots upon stone once again met his ears, Harry felt anticipation worming its way through his gut.

It was time.

Bellatrix's footsteps were like thunder in the quiet dungeon, each step a heavy stomp. As opposed the usual image of a cat stealthily stocking its pray, he movements were more akin to a bear charging through the woods, all sense of subtlety fled.

The cell door was ripped open, bouncing off the opposite wall. Bellatrix, her lips drawn into a snarl, tore through the entryway in a tornado of vitriol and swirling black robes.

There would be no playfulness, no biding her time, no baby talk. Lestrange was livid at being made a fool of, and would make him pay as soon as possible.

Violet eyes blazing, she withdrew her wand and snapped it downward. A long, black cord fell from the tip, coiling on the floor. With a flourish, she raised her arm up. For a moment, he saw the thick whip fly through the air, before striking the right side of his chest with a resounding crack.

Pain lanced across his chest as the leather bit deep into his chest, cutting through the tattered remnants of his shirt. He forced out a cry of anguish, filling the tiny room with his scream. In all actuality, the blow hadn't been that bad. In some respects, it almost acted like anesthesia, replacing the rotted, bone-deep ache of his severed Achilles tendons with a line of fire.

The change of pace was almost pleasant, like eating strawberry ice-cream after a month straight of chocolate.

Not that he intended to make Bellatrix aware of any of this.

Bellatrix drew back her arm again, cutting it across her body. Fire flashed across his midsection as it struck, again eliciting a manufactured cry of pain. His head dropped down, to see blood welling from the long divot clawed across his stomach.

After the second blow, the fierce anger began to recede from Bellatrix's face, to be replaced by a rising joy.

"Baby Potter's been a bad boy," she cooed, before lashing out again. "This is what happens to naughty boys."

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

With each successive blow, his cries grew louder, more desperate. Bellatrix drank every bit of his pain, her face becoming flushed, her breathing heavier. On her next draw, he noted the hard nubs poking through the thin fabric across stretched across her chest. The aroma of her obvious arousal began to waft through the air, overcoming the unpleasant stench of damp, rot and blood.

The smell of her drove him to near madness, but he turned the furious blood pumping within his veins outward, forcing it into a glass-shattering scream upon her eight blow.

A primal hunger gleaming in her eyes, she opened her right hand. The blackthorn wand fell to the ground, the conjured whip disintegrating into the damp stone. In a single, smooth movement, she shed herself of the robe. It pooled around her feet as she stepped out of it, crossing the remaining few feet to him.

As he beheld her approaching form, he found himself at war. Half of him noticed the full, ripe breasts, areola hardened with desire. The deep, heaving breaths she took, the bright sheen of lust shining in her eyes.

The other half of his consciousness saw an enemy, who approached him in a vulnerable state, the soft hollow of her throat exposed. It would be the work of seconds to tear into her pale flesh, to feel the hot spurt of blood as it pumped from her torn jugular. To see her collapse to the floor, her final few breaths little more than gargles, eyes full of the knowledge that she had been bested.

However, a dead Bellatrix brought him no closer to escape.

Harry let out a moan as she pawed at the front of his pants, stroking, rubbing the hardness within. With an impatient growl, she yanked down his trousers, exposing his lower extremities to the cool atmosphere. A small, smooth hand encircled his length and began to violently pump, causing a hiss of mingled pain and pleasure to escape his clenched teeth.

Bellatrix, her grip never straying, turned herself around, facing away with him. She bent at the waist, giving Harry a full view of her pale back, and the tight firmness of her rounded backside. Reaching back, she used her right hand to guide him. He found unyielding flesh, before she lowered herself, allowing him to slip into her sopping folds.

Harry let out a moan as he was overtaken by her warmth. Her inner walls squeezed around him as his hips thrust themselves forward, pressing deeper into her sex. With both hands, Bellatrix reached back and grabbed the back of his legs for support to slam herself back against him.

Bellatrix's moans filled the room as he slipped in and out of her. All thoughts of escape, of murder, of revenge had fled. All that mattered was the tightness of her cunt.

"Fuck me, Potter!" she screamed, slamming herself onto his length as hard as she could. Beneath the fury of assault, the dam within him broke, sending him over the edge. With a yell he emptied himself into her womb, continuing to pump at her while the wave of his own climax began to ebb.

Bellatrix let out one final moan, before releasing her hands and stepping forward. Unceremoniously Harry felt himself fall free of her body, bringing with it a wave of regret. Dismayed, he tried to crush the feeling, but it hung on, its very existence mocking him.

Without a look back, Bellatrix knelt to the ground, picking up her wand. She casually flicked it between her legs, Vanishing his seed, before redressing herself quickly. Folding her robes closed, she turned. A predatory smile graced her pink, flushed features.

"I'll be seeing you soon, baby Potter. Don't go anywhere."

With that she stalked off, extinguishing the light behind her. In the dark, the pleasant ache in his groin temporarily drowning out the pain in his feet and chest.

Getting fucked again was nice, but he thought the gambit might have paid off. Bellatrix had been distracted by her own lust, and had not accomplished anything with respects to breaking him. If Voldemort checked in with Bellatrix on a daily basis, the Dark Lord would not be happy that yet another day had passed, and the contents of the prophecy were still unknown.

Next time Bellatrix arrived, she might be fighting directly for her life, and thus more apt to do something stupid.

A deeper, more cynical part of his mind scoffed at his plan. It urged him to admit that there was no fucking plan, aside from getting Bellatrix to pull up her robes.

"No, fuck you!" whispered Harry in a furious tone. "I'm trying to get inside her head, lead her into a stupid mistake. To exercise control over the situation!"

"Oh, is that it?" he replied with a derisive chuckle. "She flayed your chest to ribbons. What's it going to take to get her in the mood next time? Cutting off your hands? Playing jump rope with your small intestines? Cut off your cock?"

Harry was silent, knowing that his time was indeed drawing to a closer. He would have to act soon, before one of Bellatrix's torture sessions went too far.

Tomorrow. 

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The breath was stolen from Harry's lungs as a wave of cold hit him. Closed eyes flew open to see Bellatrix standing before him, wand out, water spraying from its tip.

"Wakey wakey!" she declared with a wide smirk. "Did baby Potter miss his Auntie?"

Harry barely perceived the words, still in shock from the rude awakening. Why hadn't he woken? The sounds of footsteps were always enough to rouse him from his thin slumber. What changed this time? Had he finally begun to break down?

"Is baby Potter giving me the silent treatment?" Bellatrix asked, pulling her features down into a caricature of a frown. "Maybe this will make you feel all better!"

With a flourish, Bellatrix conjured another whip, and swung it at him. It bit deeply into the thin scabs covering his torso, tearing them all open again. Harry let out a gasp as a wave of pain flowed over his chest, far more intense than the last lashes had caused.

Her maniacal grin widened.

"Yes, that's it! Scream for your Auntie!"

Harry obliged her for another three blows. As Harry expected, her face had become flushed, and her hardened nipples stood out against the fabric of her robe. For a moment, he wanted to give in, to have her warmth pressed against him, to once again be sheathed inside her, but he angrily banished the traitorous thought.

His life depended on it.

"Wait, is that it?" asked Harry. Bellatrix, panting heavily, froze at his question, her joy vanishing. "I was almost beginning to enjoy it."

He suppressed a laugh at Bellatrix's comically bugging eyes, taking delight in her reaction. She looked like a child just told that Christmas was cancelled.

"And if your tits are any indication, you're enjoying it too," he continued, wearing a wide grin. "Are you wet, Bella?"

"Shut up!" she hissed angrily. Her gaze darted about, as if afraid someone was listening in.

"Come off it, Bella," pleaded Harry in a conspiratorial tone. "Why don't you come here and pull up those robes a bit, just like we did last time? Voldemort will never have to know."

"Don't speak his name!" she screamed, drawing the silver knife which took Andromdea's life.

"Don't worry, Bella," assured Harry. "I'm not going to tell him that you almost let me escape, or that you fucked me. That just a day ago my jizz was running down your legs. After all, he wouldn't like that much, would he?"

With a snarl she darted forward. As Harry openly laughed at her, she reached into his mouth, presumably to tear his tongue out. He was surprised by her careless movement, but seized the opportunity.

Harry bit down as hard as he could, catching several of her fingers. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth as he clamped his down as tight as he could. With scream a comprised of more surprise than pain, she tried to jerk back, but Harry held tight, tearing into her flesh, bone grating against his teeth.

With a cry of rage, she brought up the knife, and smashed his face. It struck pommel-first, breaking it with a crunch. The blow dazed Harry, causing him to relax his jaw. Bellatrix withdrew her fingers at once. For moment, Harry saw torn pale flesh pouring forth blood, before she cradled her damaged hand against her chest.

"Didn't you ever learn that haste and carelessness never go well together?" mocked Harry, taking delight in his captor's pain.

She whipped her head up, the red fog of murder swirling in her eyes. With her good hand she raised high the knife and advanced. Drops of bright blood slipped from her torn hand, pattering to the floor.

"You know, the Dark Lord won't be all that pleased if I can't speak," reminded Harry as she approached. "How would you explain that one?"

Murder shone in her eyes, but his word brought Bellarix short. She studied him for a moment, violet, predatorial eyes narrowed.

"There are ways around that," she hissed, though her words lacked conviction.

"I don't think the Dark Lord has the patience to teach me sign-language," Harry deadpanned. "And besides, how many chances do you have left with the Dark Lord?"

The edge of her anger receded, suspicion taking its place.

"I am the Dark Lord's-"

"Biggest fuck-up," offered Harry, finishing the sentence.

"How dare you-"

"You're a fucking liability, you psychotic cunt!" screamed Harry, cutting Bellatrix off again. "You're lucky he didn't kill you after the Ministry fiasco! Twelve fucking Death Eaters against six teenagers and you still lost! Are you on Dumbledore's payroll or-"

A cry of inhuman rage echoed through the cell as she thrust her arm forward. Cold filled Harry's midsection.

As if a plug had been pulled, the rage drained from Bellatrix' face, turning chalk-white. Her violet eyes wide, her unbelieving gaze drifted downward, to the silver handle protruding from Harry's stomach.

"No…no!" she breathed, pulling the dagger back. It slid from his navel in a gout of blood, splattering the front of Bellatrix' robes. As she held the blade, frozen in place, a loop of red intestine began to droop from the deep wound.

"You fucked up, Bella!" Harry nearly sang, before erupting in peals of hysterical laughter. He felt pain, but was disconnected from it, as if it belonged to another person.

"Shut up, shut up!" screamed Bellatrix, the raw edge of panic evident in her words as she scrambled for her wand. Cackling madly, his body quivering, the loop un-spooled further, hitting the damp ground with a wet splat.

With a hasty incantation, Bellatrix waved her wand in front of Harry's stomach. The filthy, blood-soaked rags vanished, leaving the bleeding wound in his gut exposed. She whispered another spell, and a purple spell struck. The grimy flesh surrounding the tear began to press inward, attempting to fill the gaping hole.

The skin strained for a moment, before tearing, widening the hole. A second segment of intestine began to dribble out.

"And you're the Dark Lord's most trusted?!" questioned Harry with a cackle. "No wonder Voldemort's uprising failed!"

As he spoke, the edges of the world began to grey. Light-headed, he collapsed against his restraints, legs failing him. He fell, only to be jerked violently as he reached the end of the iron's chains tether. For a moment he hung, before a loud incantation rang through the air, momentarily cutting through the haze. Metal squealed, and suddenly Harry was falling, the damp flagstones coming up to greet him. He barely felt it as he hit the ground, the side of his head striking the ground.

His eyes growing heavy, for a moment he saw his hand splayed upon the ground, a broken manacle hanging from his emaciated wrist.

"Free…at…last," Harry whispered, before the darkness consumed him.

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How sweet it was when her playthings broke. Like a garden she cultivated them, listening carefully to hear the almost audible cracks as their hopes crumbled into dust, the light of humanity draining away piece by piece. Every cruel word, every inch of torment was mere foreplay to the climax of their passion, that final exquisite moment when they ceased to be people, and devolved into hollow shells of life. A week, a month, a year; it mattered not. At the very end, she ascended to divinity, having snuffed out another life.

For the first time, however, the desperation was all her own.

The suffocating stench of blood and depravity cloying her senses, Bellatrix stumbled from the tiny cell, leaving Potter's petrified body behind. Pulling in deep gulps of damp air, she launched herself down the small cell block. Shoulder-first she barreled into the wooden door at the end, plowing through it.

Footsteps echoed in the darkness as Bellatrix pelted down a stone staircase. Torches set into the wall emitted scant, flickering light, illuminating the path which dug deep into the shale beneath Malfoy Manor.

As she ran, she reached into an inner pocket, fumbling within its depths. After several frenzied moments, her fingers wrapped around a large key, which she withdrew just shy of the iron gate at the bottom landing.

Without hesitation she stuck the large brass key into the lock. It clicked as the bolt disengaged, before swinging inward without a sound. Ignoring the crushing dread overtaking her, she stepped forward to a large, ironwood door, and pushed it open.

The cloying stench of death struck her like a hammer, nearly driving her back. Blood, rot and decay clogged her senses as she stepped forward into the dimly lit room.

Upside-down hung three bodies, gently swaying. Iron hooks protruded from the meat of their calves, connected to thick lengths of chain fastened to the ceiling. Two of the bodies had been skinned, leaving behind a human outline of glistening muscle, tendons and fat. A wide basin lay under them. Thick chunks of flesh and gore floated atop the shallow well of blood.

Before the third body stood the Dark Lord, his back to the door, a silver knife clasped casually in his right hand. He stood still, unmoving, making no acknowledgement of her entrance.

Discipline, fear and the gravity of the situation warred within Bellatrix's mind, but logic won out over all of them. After a few moments she lowered herself to the ground in supplication, left knee pressed to the ground, head tucked.

"My Lord-"

"I left clear instructions not to be disturbed," rasped the Dark Lord, cutting across her entreaty. Dismay met his words, but she pushed on, swallowing heavily.

"You did."

Fabric whispered as he turned from the partially skinned body.

"Then what has brought you here, Bellatrix? A faithful servant such as yourself would not have disturbed me without reason."

The swelling of pride which normally met his praise was nowhere to be found. All she felt was shame as she raised her head an inch, meeting his crimson gaze.

"I went too far-"

Like a stone thrown into smooth water, Voldemort's stoic expression vanished, leaving behind blind fury. With a snarl he flicked his wand upwards, and Bellatrix's legs were cut out from under her. An invisible force constricted around her throat as she was upended, floating in mid-air.

"Is he still alive?" demanded the Dark Lord, his eyes narrowed, nostrils flared. Unable to breathe, let alone talk, Bellatrix nodded her head. At once the force holding her relented, dropping her to the floor below. She landed painfully on her head and hip, but kept her cry bottled within.

"Come, Bellatrix," beckoned Voldemort, before turning on his heel and marching away, dark robes trailing behind him. "Pray that he is still alive."

Ignoring the throb in her head and throat, she regained her feet and began to stumble after the Dark Lord.

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Burning agony spreading forth from his stomach heralded Harry's return to reality. With a groan, he opened his eyes, to see that the familiar damp, concrete walls were nowhere to be seen.

Instead of gloomy murk, he now sat in bright sunshine, warm rays filtering through a circular glass window which took up half of the ceiling. Light splashed off flawless, white marble floors, rebounding off the polished brass frames hanging on the walls. Paintings of lushly detailed landscapes covered every section of wall.

With a grunt, Harry tried to move, only to discover that his wrists were tightly bound to a wooden chair by lengths of chain. Legs free, he tried to push off the floor, but his slashed tendons folded beneath the strain, creating a fresh wave of agony so intense it raised the gorge within his throat. Swallowing bile, he tried again, but his legs just couldn't bear the weight.

"Fucking cunt!" spat Harry, red staining his vision. Had he come so far, succeeded in making Bellatrix lose her cool, escape the dungeon, to merely trade one prison for another?

No. No fucking way.

"Come on, Potter! Think!" he hissed. "It doesn't matter how much you want it, your fucking legs aren't going to work!"

Conceding his legs as useless, Harry began to rock his body back and forth. Knit flesh began to twist and stretch painfully within his midsection, splitting the fledgling bonds of the scab, but he pressed on. Back, and then forward. Back, and then forward.

Wood screeched as his momentum dragged the chair's legs across the floor, scouring into the tile. Each movement was like a dance upon the edge of a blade, where every moment offered the chance to overbalance and fall, but after what seemed like an eternity he made it to the closest wall. A trail of scattered drops of blood marked his progress, as did the burning agony in his stomach, but he had done it.

Vision beginning to fade at the edges, Harry began to rock back and forth, until his backward momentum crossed the tipping point. He held his breath as he fell backwards. A loud bang echoed through the room as the back of the chair crashed against the wall, but the crack and splinter of wood he was expecting was absent.

"Fucking shite!" swore Harry, the chair holding him wedged between the wall and the floor. "Can something, just one thing, go right for once?!"

Anger fueling his movements, he began to thrash, but the chair remained stuck, and the wood unyielding.

"Come on you fucking twat! Break!"

A loud clap echoed through the room, causing Harry's head to dart up. Ice filled his veins as a hanging curtain parted. A thin, humorless smile stretched across his features as he approached Harry, bringing his pale palms together at a leisurely pace. Bellatrix followed behind her master, her expression gleeful, despite the bright-red marks upon the creamy flesh of her throat.

"Your perseverance is admirable, despite how misplaced it is," rasped Voldemort. Bellatrix let out a mad cackle at his words.

"Did itty-bitty baby Potter really think he could escape?"

"I did it once, so why not?" challenged Harry. His motives were not petulant, but shots in the dark. There was no telling how well informed Voldemort was of his subordinate's mistakes. Maybe he'd never escape, and die here in this bright room, but if he could at least make Bellatrix suffer a little…at this point, he'd take such a hollow victory.

"I will have the Prophecy now, Potter," Voldemort declared, as if Harry hadn't spoken.

"I don't think I will," replied Harry lightly, as if discussing the weather. The Dark Lord brought up his wand in response. The chains around his arms dissolved at once, and the chair splintered into kindling. For a fraction of a second he fell, before a giant, invisible hand clamped around his body, holding him in place.

"I will have it!" spat the Dark Lord, crimson eyes ablaze. Harry felt a small measure of fear, but not nearly enough to alter his resolve. They could take away everything he had, and still it wouldn't be enough to make him part with the deepest secret he possessed.

"_Crucio!"_

Before the echo of Bellatrix's incantation had faded, the curse struck, sharpened teeth bared. The Cruciatus cut swiftly thought the many layers of pain already present, elevating him to a higher plane of torment. He thrashed in the air, searching for something, anything to redirect his agony, but his efforts were in vain.

Several infinitely long moments passed before the curse was lifted. There was no familiar drop, no temporary reprieve, as the invisible force continued to hold him aloft.

"The Prophecy. Now."

Voldemort's voice was flat, emotionless, as if conducting a routine business transaction. Again and again the wand would fall, until what the Dark Lord needed became his. That was, unless Harry had something to say about it.

Still gasping for air, he drew in another breath to speak, but Voldemort read the answer in his eyes. At once the Cruciatus Curse returned. He endured silently for a brief moment, before fresh screams lit the air. All resistance, all rational thought fled at the renewed torture. There was only the endless moment in which every inch of skin was eaten by acid, millimeter by millimeter; all while knives flayed the raw, burning flesh.

For far too long it went on. Desperately he tried to focus on Voldemort, but all thought disintegrated as soon as they formed, being swept away in the endless crimson tide. It all became too much, like trying to bear the weight of a mountain upon his shoulders. Through scarlet haze he regained enough control to see Voldemort staring at him, arms crossed, wand held loose within pale, spindly fingers.

"Haven't you had enough, Potter? Are a few words of nonsense enough to throw away your life over? One word, Potter, and it could all be over."

"I-I-It's a-a-already o-over," stuttered Harry, barely capable of speech, his nerve endings still screaming. With a violently trembling hand, he motioned towards his stomach. "Y-y-you…c-c-can't f-f-fix this. N-no one h-here c-c-can. Only St. M-Mungo's…"

Voldemort's calm demeanor crumbled at once. An invisible force struck Harry in the side of the face, eliciting a loud crack. His world titled as he fell to the ground, blows raining down upon him. The thuds of impact echoed throughout the room, as blood began to pool on the ground, soaking into his clothes.

He barely felt the blows upon his flesh, which were light kisses compared to the bite of the Cruciatus. In the unexpected respite, Harry spat out a mouthful of coppery blood and bile, beginning to laugh manically.

"You have nothing to hold over me! Nothing!"

The Dark Lord lowered his wand, canceling the attack. Features contorted in hate, he turned to Bellatrix, who watched the proceedings with barely-contained glee.

"Rip the Prophecy from his head!"

For a single lucid moment, as Bellatrix raised her wand, cruel smile bared, his entire incarceration made sense: Voldemort was afraid of re-entering Harry's mind. His brief possession attempt at the Department of Mysteries had rattled him more deeply than anyone could have guessed. To the point where he wouldn't even re-enter Harry's mind.

A dilemma Bellatrix did not share.

"_Legilimens!"_

Harry tried to prepare for the attack, but it was like trying to hold back the sea. She broke through his feeble attempt at repulsion and began to sift through his memories carelessly, strewing the contents to every dark corner.

His struggle never flagged, but he was helpless as she seized at memory with sharpened talons. For a moment Harry relived the sorrow of Sirius' loss, the sting of which he had felt so keenly within Headmaster's Office, wondering how it could have gone so wrong.

Bellatrix, triumphant, withdrew from his mind. The door of memory slammed shut, ushering in the cruel reality of his situation, and the all-encompassing torment.

"My Lord, I have it!" exclaimed Lestrange. At her words, Voldemort whipped his gaze towards her.

"What is it?" he demanded, closing the distance between them.

Harry wanted to close his ears, to ward off the incoming words. The one secret he had protected, had endured hell to keep hidden, the only thing keeping him alive…

"_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…and the Dark Lord will mark him as equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not…and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives…the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…"_

The Dark Lord's crimson gaze widened a fraction as Bellatrix recitation, but he hid his surprise well. Slowly, he turned, fixing his gaze back down upon Harry.

"Of course," he said softly, an octave above a whisper. "Once again, I underestimate you, Dumbledore."

A sharp comment died on the tip of Harry's tongue. Dumbeldore? What did he have to do with this?

"I had assumed Dumbledore's placement of you within the Muggle community, as well as his security measures, were mere incompetence, but now…"

Through the haze of pain Harry tried to decipher the Dark Lord's words, his tortured mind struggling to focus. Voldemort had taken down the blood wards by murdering Petunia and Dudley, but…was there more to it?

"You were nothing more than Dumbledore's sacrificial lamb. I tried to kill you once, and it brought me before the gates of death. Blood sacrifices, arcane magic, a mother's love…I gave your Mudblood mother far too much credence. A mistake I shall not repeat."

Voldemort turned his gaze to his faithful servant, wand drawn. Bellatrix barely had time to blink before the incantation lit the air.

"_Obliviate!"_

The spell struck the witch in the chest, causing her eyes to glass over. For a few moments she stood, mouth open, before Voldemort turned back towards Harry, wand drawn.

"Bella, I require your assistance."

"Y-Yes, my Lord," she answered, groggy to begin, but sharpening quickly as she joined her master in pointing her wand at Harry's chest.

"Killing Harry Potter would serve little purpose. He'll be remembered as a martyr, a rallying point for Britain's mudblood population."

"Traitors!" she hissed.

"And in time, they shall be uprooted. For now, though, a sign will suffice. A message that those who would fight against our righteous cause face a fate far worse than death."

Despite the agony throbbing in his bones, Harry found that he still possessed the capacity for terror.

"Potter, I believe you mentioned wanting to go to St. Mungo's?" recalled Voldemort, a cruel smile playing on his flat features.

Harry couldn't even breathe, let alone reply. His thoughts turned to Neville's mother, and the small delight she took in giving her son gum wrappers. Her frail, withered frame and vacant eyes.

"No final parting words, Potter? Very well. Bella, shall we provide the Longbottoms with companionship?"

Her leering grin was the only answer needed. In unison both wands fell.

"_Crucio!"_

"_Crucio!"_

Like a worm cut in half Harry writhed on the ground, heedless to his other injuries. The millions of needles stabbing at his flesh overruled all, pushing aside conscious thought. He screamed, he pleaded, shredding his throat, but the curse was unrelenting in its fury.

Forever and a day he suffered, the insurmountable agony increasing in intensity. It coalesced into fire, seeping through the pores of his skin. It consumed his mind, torching his memories, everything that he had ever been. The hollow spaces left behind filled with red, obliterating all else.

One, final tortured scream burst from his throat before the final vestiges of his mind crumbled to ash leaving nothing behind.

Not even pain.

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Author Notes:

The rape scenes may have seemed gratuitous, and I wouldn't argue against someone who said they were, but I felt the story needed it to push Harry in a certain direction. I've never been one to shy from depraved details, and didn't want to start now.

I am well-aware that it's been ten months since the last update, and for that I apologize. As difficult as chapters 2 and 3 have been to read, they've been just as difficult, and tedious to write. Thankfully, the setup is nearly done, and Harry is in the place I need him to be for the next portion of the story to take off. The 'imprisonment' arc is now over.

Harry's exact fate will be revealed to open the next chapter, but as one might infer, he is not in a good place. I don't know when it will be complete, but I at least have the rough outline. Progress will be noted on my profile when it occurs.

Thanks a lot to T3t for his beta work. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my fault.

As always, I greatly appreciate feedback. I may not always have the time to provide a prompt review reply, but I will eventually. That is, unless you provide an anonymous review. In which case, I cannot.

DLP Thanks:

saevanus, Zerg Lurker, Gambit, gullibleboats, Scott, psihary, bugler, trolllol, Cxjenius, Wizard Giller, Garden, The Infidel, Silver Cat 777


	4. Chapter 4: A Stranger Walks Among Them

Ouroboros

Chapter 4: A Stranger Walks Among Them

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_The photograph takes up the entire front page of the Daily Prophet. Printed in full-color, a rarity for the publication, it not only jumps from the paper, but commands the reader's attention and keeps their eyes glued to the horrific scene. _

_It appears to be early morning, judging by the soft quality of the light. Three crimson-robed Aurors, their backs to the photographer, grapple with what appears to be a giant wooden cross perhaps eight feet tall, titled slightly to the left. The base of the cross, roughly six inches in thickness, showing gouges in the wood, is surrounded by chips of shattered stone, almost as it the cross had recently been uprooted from the flagstones. _

_An emaciated figure clothed in dirty rags is hangs from the cross by one arm. A thick iron spike has been driven through the wrist, pinning it to the wood. The other arm is being supported by one of the Aurors. Clasped within both of the Aurors hands, the arm looks like little more than skin and bones. Bright scarlet blood seeps from the ragged hole in the figure's wrist. _

_Though the starved figure's eyes are closed, the dark hair matted with blood, the outline of a lightning-bolt is still visible upon the grimy forehead. _

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In a private waiting room at St. Mungo's paced Albus Dumbledore, hands clasped behind his back, mind heavy. From time to time he'd glance at the latest issue of the Daily Prophet lying on the table in the center of the room. The horrific picture of Harry Potter being taken down from the giant crucifix was an indictment, a summation of all his failures regarding the Chosen One.

A large door opened at the other end of the room, admitting a Healer. His traditional lime-green robe, with a bone and wand crossed over one another emblazoned upon his chest, were stained with bright blood.

"Healer Spleen," greeted Dumbledore, dispensing with the pleasantries. "What is Harry's condition?"

The tall, stooped Healer let out a deep sigh, running a hand over his bald, spotted pate.

"The most grievous physical wound was from a sharp object, most likely a knife, accounting for the hole in the patient's abdomen. A poorly cast Flesh-Knitting Spell tore the wound open further, dislodging the small intestine. At least half of it will have to be re-grown."

Dumbledore's mouth tightened at the mention of the injury, but other than that his face was impassive. Later there would be a time to grieve for the torture inflicted upon young Harry, but that time was not now.

"Please, continue."

"We are treating his abdomen right now, but soon we will have to deal with the numerous wounds on his legs, wrists and face. Every wound inflicted upon him was allowed to fester, to the point where gangrene has set in. The affected areas will have to be excised, before the flesh is re-grown."

Dumbledore's mind seized upon a distinction the Healer had made in his first diagnosis.

"You made a point to mention his 'physical' wounds. Why was it important to specify their nature?"

Spleen let out a deep breath.

"When the patient arrived at St. Mungo's, his eyes were shut. When we manually opened them to check for any damage to the eyes, we discovered that every single blood vessel had burst. Do…do you know what that means, Albus?"

The Healer's voice broke slightly at the end, his professional veneer cracking for a moment. Dumbledore's shoulders slumped, well aware of the implications.

Frank and Alice Longbottom were tortured by the Cruciatus Curse for hours on end, and when taken to St. Mungo's, showed similar symptoms. The vessels in their eyes healed, but their minds were beyond all help.

For the third time, one of his allies had been condemned to a fate crueler than death.

"The patient's physical wounds will heal, but as for the mental scarring…I just don't know. Damage of this magnitude is unexplored territory in the Healing field. Torture of this sort is so rare that we don't have enough data to form a reliable diagnosis."

Despite the catatonic states of the Longbottoms, Albus allowed himself a brief moment of hope. Perhaps things could be different for Harry. He seemed to be the exception to the rule in many instances; why couldn't this be any different?

A door flying open stole his attention. He glances to his right to see Rufus Scrimegeor enter the waiting room for the Spell Damage ward, lame leg dragging behind him. Two crimson-robed Aurors followed in his wake, their faces blank masks.

"Healer Spleen. These men will see personally to Harry's protection."

The healer wore a heavy frown, but chose not to challenge the new Minister.

"Potter is being held within room four-o-seven, the last on the left. You may post your Aurors outside the door, but under no situation are they to enter the room. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly," Scrimegeor replied, nodding his head a single time at the door leading to the ward. At once the two Aurors left the room, to begin their watch. "Now, what is Potter's condition?" he asked, turning to the Healer.

"Healer Spleen just informed me," said Dumbledore, cutting into the dialogue. "Perhaps I could relate it to you so that our esteemed healer can get back to his work?"

The Healer seized at the exit Dumbledore had provided.

"Indeed I do, my assistants have most likely finished their prep. If anything should change, I will let you know, Minister."

Scrimegeor didn't look pleased by the Healer's words, but offered no objection.

"Very well then. Remember, Healer Spleen: Britain is depending on you."

Without further words, the Healer left, leaving Scrimegeor and Dumbledore alone. As soon as the door had closed, the Minister rounded on Dumbledore.

"Tell me everything," he ordered, his voice brooking no argument. The Headmaster complied, relaying all the information given unto him. At additional each injury, the Minister cursed more loudly, souring his mood.

"So what you mean to tell me, Dumbledore," said the Minister, through gritted teeth, "Is that Harry Potter, the boy Wizarding Britain is now referring to as 'The Chosen One', may never wake up? Is that what you're telling me?"

"Your concern for Harry is touching, Minister. It saddens me to say as much, but yes, that is a very real possibility."

"Dammit, Dumbledore, I'm trying to fight a bloody war here!" yelled Scrimegeor, his face reddening. "It's not enough that I have to worry about giant attacks, or the murder of the head of the DMLE, or trying to make some sort of progress in tracking down the at large Death Eaters?! No, of course not! I have to worry about the fact that you left Harry Potter at a Muggle residence for the summer! What, did you think that Voldemort would get tired of trying to kill Potter?! That perhaps he'd get bored with it, and move onto something else?!"

Dumbledore closed his eyes for a moment. As much as he disagreed with Scrimegeor's tactics, the man had brought up many valid points. Harry's abduction had been a perfect storm of missed details, incompetence and pure bad luck, though indeed it had been his call to send Harry back to Privet Drive.

The brief silence gave Scrimegeor a chance to calm down slightly. Taking a deep breath, he re-adjusted his wire-framed glasses.

"For years, we've left the security of Potter in your hands, but no longer. When Potter is in stable condition, he will be transferred to a secure Ministry safe house, guarded by the best Aurors the DMLE has to offer."

"That would be unwise," cautioned Dumbledore, prompting a bark of humorless laughter from the Minister. Undaunted, the Headmaster pushed on.

"Ask yourself what happened during the first Wizarding War, Rufus. With how vast the Ministry is, how certain are you that the entire DMLE is free from Voldemort's influence?"

"Perhaps as certain as you that they're no leaks within your own little vigilante group. Tell me, how did Potter get captured again?"

Bile rise in the back of Dumbledore's throat, the magnitude of his mistakes with Harry making him physically ill.

"A grievous oversight, but not one born from a question of loyalty. Every member of the Order has a personal stake in this war. Beyond that, though, you heard Spleen's words: His mental wounds are the most troubling aspect of this situation. I, for one, am confident that familiar faces in a familiar location, one that is dear to his heart, with aid in the process."

"I will not have Potter be sent back to live with bloody Muggles!" hissed Scrimegeor, yellowing eyes filled with anger.

"Nor would I. I am thinking of a Wizarding household, where most of his closest friends reside."

Scrimegeor appeared to mull over the idea.

"And how secure is this location? We cannot afford any more mistakes where Harry is concerned."

"No, absolutely not," agreed Dumbledore. "I understand that you would want Aurors on patrol, and we could upgrade the ward configurations until they met your specifications. With the resources at your disposal, we could make it very nearly impossible to break through the protections, all while providing Harry a warm, caring atmosphere to recover within."

Scrimegeor ran a hand through his thick whiskers.

"And this family you speak of, they will consent to my demands? Because, mark my words, Dumbledore, I am not taking any chances this time around."

"Oh, I assure you, Rufus, you will find them to be most accommodating hosts."

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White, blinding light filled the world, pushing away the faintest suggestion of dark. He felt nothing, as if he was floating in a cloud. No pain accompanied the brightness, only a vague notion that perhaps he should close his eyes. Upon doing so, the light dimmed, leaving a spectrum of colored spots to dance in front of his vision.

"Oh, Harry!" wept an unfamiliar female voice.

At the screech, his last memory came flooding back. Of Voldemort and Bellatrix perched above him, the Cruciatus Curse upon both their tongues. He thrashed against the bonds as hard as he could, but he felt no give in his restraints, as if every inch of his body was locked in place.

"Harry, you're safe here!" the same voice insisted in soothing tones, closer this time. It possessed nothing of the malice he had known from Bellatrix, but he was on guard nonetheless. His vision had not yet returned to normal, leaving him blind.

"I…I can't see," he croaked across numb lips. Getting a better handle on his surroundings was priority number one. Until then, he was helpless.

"Here, drink this," the woman urged. "It will make everything better."

"What is it?" Harry asked suspiciously.

There was a brief moment of silence, before the woman resumed with an air of hesitation.

"Your eyes have been closed…a long time, so your pupils are almost completely dilated. This will fix them."

He still didn't trust the woman, but offered no rebuttal. It appeared he had been out of commission for a while. If she hadn't killed him already, it was foolish to assume she would do so now. Resigned, he stayed still, waiting for the cool vial upon his lips.

Nothing happened.

"Harry, you've got to swallow," she urged. He still felt nothing, but went through the motion anyway. "There you are, dear. This will help."

True to her word, the blinding light faded at once, revealing a small, cozy bedroom. Above a writing desk on the left-hand wall, a double-window was wide open, letting lazy streams of sunlight into the room.

Beside him, in a plush blue armchair, sat Mrs. Weasley. Moisture glistened in her eyes as she clasped his right hand tightly within her own.

"We're so glad to have you back, dear," the Weasley matriarch whispered, before leaning forward and enveloping Harry in a hug. He saw her lean in, saw the wrinkled flower-print housedress she wore, the frizzed state of her red hair, streaked with trails of white, but he couldn't feel her embrace. No more than he felt the bed beneath him.

"I can't feel you."

"You…what?" asked Mrs. Weasley with surprise, drawing back from him. Not answering, Harry kicked off the patched quilt covering his lower body, revealing pajama-clad legs as thin as rails. He succeeded in partially kicking the cover off, but did not feel the fabric upon his legs. With a shaky hand he could not feel, he reached out and poked the upper part of his leg.

"I can't feel this," said Harry as he lowered his hand and tried to dig against the mattress, to push himself into a sitting position. Without touch to guide his actions, he slid ineffectually against the sheet.

"Oh, Harry…" gasped Mrs. Weasley, placing her hands over her gaping mouth. "I…this isn't right."

Turning his head to the right, Harry spied an end table. A half-full glass of water stood upon, next to the empty vial which had most likely contained the potion she administered.

"No, let me-" objected Mrs. Weasley, but he pressed on. Numb fingers jostled the cup, sending it tumbling. Water sloshed out of the glass, soaking the white doily covering the wood.

"Fuck," he swore under his breath, watching his hand. The fingers moved, following the commands of his brain, he just couldn't feel them. A second later the glass tumbled off the side of the table. It exploded against the floor in a discordant crash, drawing a small yelp from Mrs. Weasley.

"Oh Harry, it's okay," she assured, freely crying now, but Harry ignored her. Keeping a careful eye on his hand, he wrapped his fingers around the vial. It was difficult, maintaining a grip without sensation in his appendages, but he lifted up the vial a foot, before smashing back against the table.

Mrs. Weasley let out a small scream, jumping back a foot. With clinical interest, Harry held his hand out in front of his face. Several large slivers of glass were embedded in his palm. Small rivulets of blood ran down his hand, dripping onto the bedding.

Yet it was all painless.

"Harry dear, what are you doing?!" she cried with a panicked edge. Harry let out a casual shrug in response. If they had managed to sew his stomach back together and heal his legs, a few cuts to his hands weren't going to be a big deal.

"Testing a theory."

Her eyes widening, the Weasley matriarch took a step backwards. "I…I'll go g-get a Healer," she stuttered, before practically fleeing from the small bedroom.

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The Weasley matriarch was inconsolable. On a threadbare brown couch she sat, bent at the waist, tear tracks winding their way down her cheeks. What had been full-out sobs had tapered to the occasional sniffle

"He isn't himself," she declared, her red, puffy eyes still shining with moisture.

"Harry will be fine, Molly," assured Arthur Weasley, seated next to his wife. One of his hands rubbed small, reassuring circles on her back, while the other squeezed her knee through her flower-print housedress.

The words were spoken with optimistic conviction, but the haunted look in the thin man's pinched face spoke a different truth; one which Healer Spleen was inclinded to agree with.

He took his leave from the living room in silence, ducking into the cluttered kitchen. He leaned up against a counter cluttered high with cookware and pottery, crossing his thin arms. It was hard to form much of a diagnosis from the words of a hysterical witch, but nonetheless...

The very idea that Potter was capable of coherent speech and thought outshined the optimistic of his projections.

Spleen looked to his right as the kitchen door opened, admitting Albus Dumbledore and his garish robes. The Healer didn't bother to conceal his disdain for the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

He was a Healer by trade, one of the finest currently employed by St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Day in, day out the lives of countless witches and wizards depended on his skills. As had Potter the day he had been cut down the crucifix planted at Diagon Alley. The damage had been extensive to the teenager's body, but Darion Spleen had never been one to back away from a challenge. It had taken the entire day, eighteen straight hours, but Potter had finally made it back from death's precipice.

At that point, Spleen's role should have been complete. Potter was in stable condition, and the tender attentions of even an apprentice Healer would have sufficed to guide him down the road to physical recovery.

However, it was just beginning. By order of the Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimegeor, he had been stationed at the Weasley family pigsty, 'The Burrow', and forced to attend to a comatose patient, letting his skills go to waste.

"Healer Spleen," greeted Dumbledore, with a slight inclination of his head, as if they had not just both born witness to Molly Weasley's tearful account of Potter's awakening.

"I assume you want me to go up and examine Potter," Spleen stated with blunt efficiency, dispensing with the pleasantries. If Dumbledore was offended by the frank statement, he gave no indication.

"I would be most appreciative if you would do so. It is a miracle that Mister Potter has awakened in the first place, but fear for the scars that his ordeal may have left behind."

"You heard Mrs. Weasley. 'May' does not enter into the equation. The only question is how deep the scars extend."

"And that, Healer Spleen, is exactly what I need you to assess."

"My skills as a Healer are inadequate to gauge that," Spleen replied slowly. "After what Potter has been through, you would be better served with someone well-versed in the mental arts."

Dumbledore shook his head a single time. "Eventually, yes, but his lack of touch must be addressed first. It is the first sense that we truly understand, even as a newborn, when our cries summon forth the warm, nurturing embrace of our mother. A pat on the back or a rough hug from a parent says more than a thousands words of praise. Touch is the foundation to our emotional cores. Without it…I fear young Harry will be unable to ground himself."

The Healer understood the logic of the Headmaster's argument, but wasn't yet ready to yield. "And this would be more useful than having a familiar face around to greet him? He is up there right now, all alone in that room. Do you think he's wondering why no one else has gone to see him?"

"After hearing the story that Mrs. Weasley, who by all accounts is like a mother to him, told us…it would appear that his physical aliments weight far more heavily in his mind. Perhaps once you've formed the basis of a diagnosis, we can explore that avenue."

Spleen dropped his gaze to the faded, brown tiles beneath his feet, trying to compose his thoughts. The argument the wizened Headmaster was trying to make was feeble at best, based upon conjecture rather than actual fact. What was Dumbledore's ultimate goal here?

"He may have questions," Spleen said eventually, looking up from the floor. "Questions that I don't have the answer to."

"And I would encourage you to answer them to the best of your ability."

"But I don't know anything!" Spleen snapped, unable to hide his agitation any longer. "If I had just spent a month being tortured, there would be some very specific questions on my mind."

"And what would those questions happen to be?" prodded the Headmaster. His tone was light, his bearing benevolent, but behind the bright blue eyes Spleen received the distinct impression that Dumbledore was displeased with the current direction of their conversation. And despite the lack of malice, the Healer felt gooseflesh break out over his arms and legs, the tiny hairs standing on end.

For a brief moment he saw Dumbledore, not for the benevolent Headmaster loved by the generations of witches and wizards that had passed through Hogwarts, but for the most powerful wizard in Britain, the man who had defeated Grindelwald on the battlefield, the one who was said to be the only man that Voldemort had ever feared.

And he, a skilled Healer, but just a Healer, nonetheless, was going to challenge Albus Dumbledore on the matter?

Not fucking likely.

"You know, it doesn't matter," said Spleen quickly, standing up straight. "Though perhaps Potter would like to see some of his friends after I'm finished with my examination?"

"I believe that may do young Harry some good," stated Dumbledore magnanimously, as if nothing had even been amiss.

"I…I'll let you know what I find," Spleen said, making to leave the kitchen behind. His racing heart was beginning to slow, but he still wanted to put as much distance between the two of them as possible.

His gaolers may have changed identity, but it appeared that Potter may still have been a prisoner.

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Harry remembered how easy movement used to be. Walking, sitting, standing; everyday activities that were never spared a single moment's thought.

Now they required the entirety of his concentration.

What was the source of his apparent lack of feeling? The Longbottoms were the only other case he had ever heard of with long-term exposure to the Cruciatus Curse, and their physiological reaction to the torture couldn't have been different. Had his nerves shut burnt out before his mind shut itself down?

With a shrug, he left behind any attempts at contemplation. He was no Healer, and in no shape to make an accurate diagnosis. Thinking about his situation was a waste of time; understanding his new reality, however, might actually yield a return.

Keeping a careful eye upon his legs, he had swung them over the side of the bed. There was no sensation of movement, no buffer to inform him that his feet had touched down on the floor. Out of his line of sight, if he got up without the proper foot support, he'd probably fall off the bed.

Inch by inch Harry lifted his upper body off the bed, putting his weight upon his rump. Halfway to a sitting position, he began to slide off of the bed. Reflexively, he reached out with his arms, trying to break his fall. Fabric whispered as numb hands raked at the sheets without finding purchase, leaving thin trails of blood on them.

Unable to stop his slide, he tumbled to the floor in a messy tangle of flailing limbs.

"Bloody fucking hell!" yelled Harry, pounding his hand down on the ground. He heard it thump into the carpet, yet his fist felt nothing. Even child-like tantrums had lost their appeal.

Wondering if it was even worth the trouble to climb back into the bed, the bedroom door opened. Harry turned his head to see a tall man with a stooped back enter, dressed in lime-green robes.

"Mister Potter, are you alright?" he asked, crouching down so that he was at eye level with Harry. 

"I'm fine, I just fell off the bed," answered Harry. At his words, the healer glanced towards the streaks of blood marring the white sheets.

"A test," he explained, "to see if I could feel anything."

"That seems…extreme," the healer observed, before drawing his wand and vanishing the bloodstains. "Can I see your right hand?"

With a shrug, Harry turned the offending palm up. "I guess Mrs. Weasley already told you everything."

"Well, she certainly said a few things," conceded the healer. He pointed his wand at Harry's hand, and a bright yellow flash enveloped it for a brief moment, before fading from view. Seemingly satisfied, he took Harry's hand in his own, casting a speculative eye over it.

"For someone who was just patched up, you seem to be in a hurry to undo my work. I'm frankly surprised that there's no ligament damage."

Harry shrugged, not really caring one way or the other.

"The work you put in wasn't really at the forefront of my mind."

"Understandable, considering the circumstances," allowed the healer, as he waved his wand over Harry's hand. As if pulled by a magnet the slivers of glass flew outward, the tiny wounds sealing as the flying shards flew neatly into a glass vial, which the healer promptly corked and placed into a pocket within his robes.

"I would like to move you back onto the bed, if that's okay with you."

At Harry's nod, he began to floats upwards. As gently as a mother putting a newborn into a crib, the healer set Harry down upon crisp, white sheets.

"Now that you're in a more civilized position, allow me to introduce myself as Dario Spleen, Senior Healer at St. Mungo's."

Harry couldn't help but notice how fucking stupid of a last name the Healer possessed, but met his outstretched hand anyway, fumbling slightly as he pumped it a single time.

"You already know my name."

"I do," Spleen admitted. "The Minister of Magic himself asked me to personally oversee your recovery."

Harry let out a snort of laughter. From doting, indulgent uncle to ruthless inquisitor, there were few extremes Fudge hadn't broached during their limited interactions.

"Have I said something amusing?" Spleen asked with a slight frown.

"Fudge's attitude towards me changes more frequently than the wind. Maybe next week he'll have St. Mungo's worst Healer here to take your place."

"Well…I can't speak to what your relationship is to Cornelius Fudge," said Spleen after a moment of awkward silence. "But good, bad, or indifferent, there is now a new Minister of Magic. The former Head of the Auror Office, Rufus Scrimgeour, has been appointed in his place."

"Well…that's good, I guess?" ventured Harry, not really sure. Sure, Fudge was incompetence personified, but there was no guarantee that the new Minister would be any better.

"That is a subject of much debate, but right now I am more concerned about your hand."

Harry raised it, holding it up in front of his face. All the tiny perforations from vial were gone, along with the bloodstains.

"It seems to have healed well," said the Healer, after examining it for a moment.

Harry, grinning humorlessly, make a fist with the hand and smashed it against the bedside table. To his credit, the Healer did not flinch.

"Yeah, it really feels great, doc," he said with a sarcastic sneer. Harry supposed that he should be feeling scared, but all he felt was a logical annoyance. How the fuck was he supposed to function if he couldn't feel anything?

"Do you know what condition we found you in, Mister Potter?" asked Spleen, not bothering to hide his annoyance. "The very fact that you're capable of any movement at all, let along coherent and intelligent thought, is a miracle unto itself."

"No, I don't," replied Harry, ignoring the second part of the statement and crossing his arms. "I know that both Voldemort and Bellatrix Lestrange had their wands pointed at me, and were handing out Cruciatus Curses like they were party favors. I know…or, I think I'm at the Burrow. And apparently Fudge is no longer the Minister, and some other bloke I've never heard of has taken his place. And that about fucking sums up what I know."

All the frustration leaked out of the Healer at Harry's words, to be replaced by weariness. He put his head down for a minute, rubbing his temples, before lifting his gaze back up to him.

"Please excuse my behavior, Mister Potter. I am renowned for my skill in the art of Healing, but my bedside manner…leaves much to be desired. I know I cannot know the horrors you faced while in captivity…"

Impatience seized at Harry. He wasn't looking for an apology, only for answers. He started to say as much, before reconsidering.

"No, I'm sorry," Harry said instead, in flat tones. "I guess you're probably the one who patched me up, so…thanks. Thanks for that."

If the hollowness of his words was evident, the Healer gave no indication. With all the wounds that he gained at Bellatrix's less than tender care, he didn't imagine that stitching him back together had been an easy task. A little gratitude, even forced, was the least that he could do.

"You are welcome, Mister Potter," he replied, inclining his head slightly.

"Were you able to fix everything?"

"On the surface, yes," Spleen answered. "The damage to your abdomen would have been fatal if untreated for another few hours. As it was, we had to regrow half of your small intestine. Your stomach, your Achilles' tendon, your mouth…we were able to repair all of the damage, but with your apparent long-term exposure to the Cruciatus, we feared you may never awaken. If you don't mind me asking…"

Harry waved a careless hand in the air. Whatever happened to him, it was in the past. He had vague memories of it, of intense anguish and torment, but they seemed faraway, unimportant, as if they happened to another person. 

"Do…do you know how long your exposure to the…Cruciatus Curse lasted?"

"The last time? I don't know," answered Harry with a shrug. "I think I passed out at some point."

"So there were multiple instances of the curse being applied?"

"More than I could ever count."

For a moment Spleen's cool, clinical mask broke, revealing a sliver of pity, before the Healer banished it away.

"Over short time periods, exposure to Cruciatus Curse is cumulative. Did the agony seem to be worse, more intense at time passed? Did the pain seem to recede more slowly the longer you were there?"

"It's all the same," Harry replied slowly, after a moment of thought. "Even when Bellatrix lifted the curse, I was still suspended by my wrists for most of time. The cold, the festering wounds, just trying to stay upright…it was just a constant onslaught of misery. It was hard to tell where one ended and another began."

"I can't imagine the nightmare that you went through, Mister Potter, but I do want you to know that I will do everything in my power to help you."

Harry nodded, satisfied. Spleen's motivations, at least from what Harry had seen. He was a Healer, and this was his job. The thought was oddly comforting, as his motivations seemed not only clear, but impersonal.

"Very well then. With your permission, I'd like to run some diagnostics, to try to isolate the cause of your current problem."

"Go ahead," said Harry, as soon as the Healer finished talking. The sooner this problem was dealt with, the better.

With a nod, Healer Spleen went to work. He cast a bevy of different spells in a wide spectrum of colors, the likes of which he'd never seen before, but assumed to be advanced Healing spells of some sort.

Several times he thought to ask about the particulars, before reconsidering. Some professionals worked better when left to their own devices, unburdened by questions or interruptions. Judging by Spleen's maintained silence while working, it seemed safe to assume that this also applied to the Healer. Which was perfectly fine with Harry. He didn't need someone with a jovial bedside manner, nor someone who explained every step of the examination.

He needed someone who would give him his fucking life back. Sooner, rather than later.

After a few minutes, Spleen withdrew a vial filled with a bright, emerald-green liquid.

"Would you mind taking this?"

At Harry's nod, he brought the vial to his lips. Though he felt nothing, Harry went through the motion of swallowing, which seemed to be good enough to ingest the potion.

Spleen pocketed the empty vial, before raising his wand. A focused beam of light stream from his wand, which he began to sweep across Harry's body. Wherever it touched, a tangled lattice of green lines were revealed, running all down his arms and into his chest, disappearing beneath his chest.

"Do you need me to take off my shirt?" asked Harry, to which Spleen shook his head.

"I have all the information I need for now. I need to go back to my office and do some cross referencing with some of my medical journals."

Harry wanted answers right-fucking-now, but expecting it would have been optimistic to the point of foolishness.

"Any ideas on what might be going on?"

"It…it would be less than prudent to draw any conclusions at this point," answered the Healer after a moment of contemplation.

It was clear that Spleen wasn't letting on to all that he knew, but he clearly had his reasons. For a moment, Harry considered demanding to know what Spleen was hiding, before reconsidering. As much as he wanted to know what was going on, knowing brought him to closer to a solution. The Healer leaving and doing the proper research did.

"Very well then," concluded Spleen, rising from the bedside chair. "I shall see you tomorrow, hopefully with answers in tow. Until then, keep your movements to a minimum."

"Why?" asked Harry. "I think I've slept enough for now. I want to go outside."

His wants were at odds with his words, but the thought of spending another day indoors held no appeal. He was sick of four walls; he wanted to go outside, to see the sunshine, the sky.

"I suppose there would be little enough harm in that. Perhaps you'd like to see your friends again?"

Ron, Hermione. It wasn't much a surprise that they were at the Burrow, but he hadn't spared them a single thought in what seemed like forever. Did he really want to see them at this point?

"Sure," said Harry with a shrug, moving to the side of the bed slowly, letting his legs dangle over the side. Though the prospect of a reunion held no joy, perhaps they might be willing to reveal the truths Spleen seemed reluctant to part with.

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Was this what an infant learning to walk felt like? Each lumbering, tottering step equally balanced between success and catastrophe.

If so, Harry had a renewed appreciation for the accomplishment of his one year-old self.

His head was down as he walked, each step a study in deliberation. While his muscles still responded promptly to all commands, unless he watched them occur, he was lost, as there was no functional feedback system on his limbs. Spleen had wanted someone to escort him across the warped, smooth floorboards and down the stairs, but Harry had waved the Healer off.

If he couldn't at least walk by himself, his long term prospects for independence weren't promising.

He wobbled as he reached out for banister up ahead, nearly falling as his useless fingers ineffectually pawed as the handhold, before grasping it at the last moment.

"This is bloody fucking ridiculous," Harry swore to himself, getting more frustrated by the minute. Sure, it was obvious he was going to have problems upon waking, but he hadn't realized how truly and deeply flummoxed his sense of equilibrium would be. Everything felt wrong, out of sorts, and his mind hadn't yet coped with the drastic change.

Putting his back to the banister, he began a sort of sidestep down the distorted, Geiger-esque stairs, taking them one at a time. Each rickety step creaked alarmingly, as if ready to give way and pitch him arse over teakettle down the remaining flights. It also didn't help that each step was constructed on a different grade, throwing off his balance further.

As he slowly descended, he looked at the pictures hung at crooked angles, from twisted lengths of steel wire hanging by nails. He saw a younger version of what he thought was Bill, with his long hair, standing next to a large, barrel-chested teenage Charlie, with a younger, red-hair preteen in horn-rimmed glasses standing between them, all of them holding garish sweaters and wide grins. Another had Ginny at perhaps five years old, all flying red hair, freckles, knees and elbows, sitting atop her father's shoulders, placing a gleaming gold star atop a towering Christmas tree. One saw a younger Ron, perhaps around eleven-years old, wearing a mix of exasperation and begrudging laughter as he was literally crushed between Fred and George, both of the twins whistling with mock innocence as they strained to squish their brother out of existence. He saw Arthur escorting a much younger, and thinner, Molly Weasley down a pathway lined with beds of white flowers.

Reaching the next landing, Harry stopped, leaning heavily against a plaster wall, which had several hairline cracks running through it. As he stared at the two doors leading off to Ginny and Bill's respective rooms, both closed, he wondered what it'd be like to live around people who actually cared for him. The closest thing he had ever known to family had been murdered before his eyes…but he wasn't even sure if they counted. You were supposed to mourn family members when they passed.

All he felt at Vernon, Petunia and Dudley's deaths was a vague sense of satisfaction. They hadn't even been served a fraction of the mental torment they put him through, but the look on his uncle's face when he saw the severed heads of his wife and son…maybe in that instant he began to understand.

With a sigh, he started down the last flight of stairs. The look of joy, of happiness upon the faces of the Weasleys struck a tinder of thought.

Joy…joy had been in short supply as of late. Ever since Sirius' death everything in his life had been on a steady downward trajectory. Down in the darkened depths of Malfoy Manor, chained to the ceiling, every festering wound screaming, he had thought a soft, white bed would be heaven…but nothing could be further than the truth. There had been no moment of triumph when he had awoken within Percy's old room, no satisfaction of escaping with his sanity mostly intact, just a hollow void of humanity. Even the first steps outside the bedroom, which should have been a shining victory after the damage his legs had sustained, might have changed his outlook, but it had not. Nothing had changed.

As much as he would have liked to think otherwise, that seeing both of the sun and his friends again, he thought that the upcoming event would be similarly disappointing. That perhaps triumph had departed forever.

The ground floor was deserted, as Harry had expected it would be. He knew the true reasoning behind it, to give his two closest friends the opportunity to greet him first, but it seemed odd to have silence in what was normally the chaotic epicenter of the Weasley household.

As he stepped into the empty kitchen, he glanced around. On a normal day he supposed Mrs. Weasley would have been putting about, levitating pots and pans into the air, while Weasleys and Order members milled around the table. Harry could still recall the memories of his time during the summers of his second and fourth year, and how he looked forward to every trip, but the memories of seasons past had none of the warmth that would normally be associated with them.

It was all just space occupying his mind.

He went out the back door, squinting against the bright glare as he raised an arm over his eyes. After a few moments he let it fall away, to reveal an endless blue sea above, with a flat yellow disk at its center. The sun, which he hadn't seen in a month, and truthfully, had never expected to see again.

And he felt nothing. No release, no catharsis, no liberation, no triumph. Nothing.

Shrugging, he climbed carefully down the steps, into the garden. Unlike its normal state, it had seen careful tending as of late. Closest to the home, a circular plinth of close-cropped grass sat, with several tables pushed together lying at its center. The hedges ringing the garden were neatly trimmed, coming to Harry's shoulder.

He went with the gentle slope of the lawn, down to where two figures stood next to the green pond, their back to him, talking quietly. The taller of the two, with short-cropped, red hair, wore a blinding orange shirt over loose fitting jeans. To his left stood a girl with brown, bushy tangles of hair hanging one-third of the way down her back, over a light purple sweatshirt. In the scant space between the two, he observed that their hands were clasped.

Ron and Hermione, the two closest friends he had ever met, who had repeatedly put their lives at risk for him, who were his two constants in the chaotic existence he had lived since arriving at Hogwarts…and he couldn't care less if he ever saw them again. A small part of him even wondered if he should just turn back and go back up to Percy's old room. What was the point?

On the brink of turning, Hermione seemed to notice that she was being watched. She turned her head around, quickly letting go of Ron's hand as her brown eyes widened. She nudged Ron as she spun and ran towards Harry, arms and legs pumping as she closed the distance, her eyes glistening.

Although starting off with every intention of throwing herself at him, she slowed as she approach him, wrapping her arms gently around him, as if he were made of glass.

"Harry," she sobbed into his ear, as it to make sure he was really there. The sunlight caught the tear-tracks on her cheeks, setting them alight.

"Am I going to get a turn?" Ron asked from behind her. Hermione let out a shaky laugh and stepped aside, wiping the sleeve of her thin sweatshirt across her eyes.

Ron, his face red, filled her vacated space, enveloping Harry in a huge hug.

"Welcome back, Harry. We – we missed you," he said, his hitching slightly. "It's great to have you back, mate."

Here he stood, his two supposedly best friends hanging off them, shedding tears like they were confetti, and he didn't feel a fucking thing. What would the prior version of his self say?

"It's, er, good to be back," he stated lamely after a few moments. Apparently satisfied, Ron stepped back. Hermione hooked her arm under his and guided him to the bench beside the pond, seating him in the center. His friends sat to either side.

He imagined at any other time, they would have fallen back to the easy camaraderie that once came at naturally as breathing, but he saw them exchange nervous glances, in between the worried ones. As lost as he was, his two friends weren't doing a whole lot better.

"How have things been around here?" asked Harry, breaking the awkward silence.

"Well…the Burrow's been rather busy as of late," answered Hermione. "The Order, the Healers, the Aurors…even Dumbledore himself has been in and out since…" she hesitated a moment, sending a pleading look to Ron.

"Since you came back," he finished. "There's daily patrols by the Aurors, and I bet we don't even see half of them."

"Better late than never," spat Harry with a bitter shrug, annoyed. He knew that the new Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimegeor, had forced the extra security upon Dumbledore, but why did it take an act of a legislative body to get him some fucking protection? "Has Dumbledore been around her much?"

"Almost every day," Hermione answered. "It seems like there's an Order meeting almost every night."

"Do they ever include you?"

Ron shook his head. "Mum still won't allow it. I mean, we don't even know…"

"Know what?" prodded Harry, after a few moments of silence. Hermione looked downward, as if afraid to speak, but Ron's face grew a shade redder. He took in a deep, frustrated breath, kicking at the dirt.

"You-Kn – V-Voldemort lured you to the Ministry of Magic just two months ago, Harry. He was after you, and he tried to kill you. Why…why in the bloody hell would you be safe with the Muggles?! At least put a few bloody members of the Order over there in case something goes wrong!"

"We haven't seen Lupin since King Crossing," Hermione interjected. "Maybe he…"

Harry thought back to that night, which seemed almost like a thousand years ago, another lifetime. Arabella Figg would have been on hand to alert the Order if something went wrong, but judging by how empty her house had been…it seemed like she had been eliminated to prevent any warning from getting out. Had Lupin been watching Harry for the Order, and been captured?

"Dumbledore had a Squib next door, Mrs. Figg, watch over me, but she couldn't have actually defended me. There had to have been someone else there, someone who could defend me if needed. Someone with a wand."

"It must have been Lupin!" concluded Ron.

"Then why haven't we heard anything about him?" Hermione challenged, crossing her arms over her chest. "If Lupin was truly gone, we would have been told."

Harry wasn't so certain. Upon awakening he expected Dumbledore to be one of his first visitors, much like after his encounter with Quirrell at the end of his first year at Hogwarts. However, it seemed like Dumbledore was intentionally going out of his way to not be around him. What was the Headmaster's motivation?

"Unless he doesn't want the truth to get out," stated Harry. For fifteen years Dumbledore had kept the prophecy a secret. If the Headmaster wanted to keep a secret, he'd have no compunction against playing it close to the vest. "Have you asked around about Lupin?"

"No one knows anything," remarked Ron, blowing out a breath of frustrated air. "We haven't even really seen any members of the Order since you arrived."

"Isn't that unusual?"

"Definitely," Ron agreed. "At least once a week you could usually count on Tonks, Kingsley or even Mad-Eye to at least poke their head through the fireplace, but as of late we haven't even seen Bill."

"But that might just be a coincidence," Hermione pointed out, ignoring Ron's cynical scoff. "If Dumbledore and the Minister aren't getting along, he might be keeping them away from the Aurors patrolling the Burrow, to keep their members identities' secret."

"What have you heard?"

"I guess Scrimgeor wanted to move you someplace else," said Ron, taking the question over from Hermione. "The only reason they let you come here was if the Aurors were on regular patrols."

"That would have been nice six weeks ago," spat Harry, causing his friends to flinch. If Lupin had been the only one watching Number Four Privet Drive, it was an unforgivable oversight.

"We're so sorry," sniffed Hermione, her red-rimmed eyes beginning to leak again.

"At least you're back now," said Ron, throwing an arm over Harry's shoulder. For a minute, Harry was tempted set the limb on fire. So what if he endured weeks of torture, had to watch every one of his escape attempts fail, and lost his sense of touch? He was back! That made up for the endless torment of the Cruciatus Curse, for the total breakdown which had led to his capture?

No fucking way it did.

"Yeah," said Harry, forcing a fake smile onto his face. If he followed up on the idea of cursing Ron, he wasn't likely to gain anything except for some fleeting sense of justice. However, it he used them…

"Don't worry, we'll keep an eye out for Lupin, and ask around," promised Hermione, reaching down and squeezing his numb hand. Harry thought he squeezed back, but couldn't be certain. "I know you're worried about him."

Harry suppressed the urge to laugh. Up until Hermione had mentioned it, he hadn't had a solitary concerned thought about his former Defense instructor. All of his thoughts concerned how Lupin's disappearance could be used to further illuminate his own situation.

And if indeed he had been standing watch and had been killed by Voldemort, why hadn't Lupin sent out a final warning message before being cut down? If his entire job was to watch for any suspicious activity, surely he would have noticed something was amiss before Voldemort descended upon Privet Drive?

Either that, or Lupin had been a terrible watchman.

"Yeah, I am," Harry answered. If his apathy on the subject was obvious, his friends gave no sign they noticed. And maybe that was just as well. Did he really even care about them any more?

Or were they just tools in his hand?

X-X-X-X-X-X -|- X-X-X-X-X-X -|- X-X-X-X-X-X

The long, sleepless night stretched time into infinity. By the time Spleen did return, it was surprising that the sun had not yet burnt out.

Yet return he did, just as the first rays of sunshine began to stream through the open window. He gave a gentle, yet firm knock on the bedroom door, and entered at Harry's insistence.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter," greeted Spleen, closing the door behind him and setting the leather satchel down on the dresser.

"Yeah, good morning," Harry said distractedly, paying little attention to the niceties that were probably expected of him. "Did you find anything out?"

If the Healer was offended by his directness, he gave no indication. He sighed slightly, taking the chair beside Harry's bed.

"Before we start, Mr. Potter, I need to emphasize that my theories are mere hypothesis at this point. Your condition sees us treading uncharted waters, and all of the conclusions I have drawn may be terribly wrong. Before we proceed, you need to understand this."

Harry nodded. And truly, he did understand, but the alternative was doing nothing, which was unacceptable.

"Yeah, I get it."

"Good," stated the Healer, apparently satisfied. "Now, the theory that I'm operating under is that, most likely in an unconscious effort, your brain detached itself from your nerve endings, in an effort to save itself, as the torment associated with long-term Cruciatus Curse exposure…is just too much for the mind to handle."

"Then why didn't the Longbottoms do the same thing?"

"I…I don't know," admitted the Healer, running a hand back against his head. "The best I can offer is guesswork. There's been recorded cases of children healing serious, sometimes even fatal wounds via accidental magic, a skill which fades the further from adolescence they grow. Perhaps you were young enough that you were able to unconsciously wield the last strands of your accidental magic. But…like I said, I cannot be sure on any of this."

Harry nodded. The lack of concrete answers was slightly disappointing, but not unexpected. "Can the damage be reversed?"

Healer Spleen contemplated the question for a moment before carefully answering.

"Perhaps, but I must admit…I'm even more concerned about what would happen once the nerves were reconnected."

"Why?"

"Again, I can't be sure, but I believe that your nerve endings may have been burnt out. If we were to re-activate them…I fear they would frozen in their last state."

Harry didn't need the Healer to lay it out any further. Even if the first step worked, he was potentially facing the prospect of being constantly under the Cruciatus Curse. Not much of an alternative to his current physical state, but what other option was there? He had to try.

"Do it."

"Are you certain, Mr. Potter? Even if we took the necessary precautions, there is the very real possibility that-"

"I cannot live like this," Harry said firmly, cutting across the warning as he slammed his numb hand down upon the bed. "If there's any chance of gaining my sense of touch back, I have to take it."

"Fine," agreed Spleen through tight lips, after a moment's hesitation. Satisfied, Harry leaned backwards. He was probably propped up against the headboard, but couldn't tell without looking.

"So what now?"

"Our nerves are like owls, carrying messages between nerve endings and our brains," explained Spleen, rising from the chair.

Harry thought of the basic biology he had learned while attending the Muggle school, which seemed like it had happened a million years ago.

"The Muggle explanation makes more sense."

"Perhaps, but is it truly correct? I have my doubts. If this 'electricity' were the firing force between our movements, wouldn't they burn out on their own? Aren't hundreds of Muggles killed by electricity every year?"

With an annoyed sigh, Harry resolved not to pursue the line of questioning. Trying to explain the concepts of electricity to a wizard, even an obviously intelligent one…would be far more trouble than it was worth.

At Harry's obvious impatience, the Healer let out a small chuckle. "Just kidding…though I do often wonder about the difference between wizards and Muggles. What makes us fundamentally different? If we were examined by their equipment, would the result be the same?"

"It's…uh, a good question..." Harry half-heartedly offered, struggling to keep his tone polite. Maybe on another day he would be intrigued, but right now, he didn't have much patience for fucking hypotheticals.

Rather than being put out, Spleen wore a wry smile. "I understand it's not the most intriguing thing in the world right now, so please forgive my digression. Back to the matter at hand, if we simply rather think of nerves as a connection between two points, to sever communications, you'd probably just snap it, right?"

As Harry nodded along, Spleen reached into his satchel, withdrawing a large glass vial stopped with a cork. A bright, electric-blue potion sloshed within as he raised it for Harry's inspection.

"Is that…?"

"It is," confirmed the Healer. "Nerve Repair Potion. In the best case scenario, this should be enough to restored the damage to your nerves, through rapid regeneration."

"And if it isn't?" asked Harry with a healthy amount of skepticism. After all the damage that had been inflicted upon him, it just seemed too easy that a single potion would be enough to restore him to normal.

"Then things become more complicated," admitted Spleen. "I'd have to manually splice your nerve connections together, a process that would prove difficult for both of us."

"So let's find out," he replied, reaching out for the vial. To his annoyance, Spleen instead laid the vial out on the table, before withdrawing another, filled with a fluorescent yellow potion.

"Not yet, I'm afraid," apologized the Healer. "Before we proceed, there are certain precautions that we must put in place. I don't want to sound too pessimistic, but if my fears come to pass, we will need this to render your nerves inert."

"So we'll fix them, then break them? What would be the point?"

"It is merely a precaution, and as I said, it will not sever the nerves, only render them inoperable for a while. Rest assured, it is not a permanent state."

"Why don't we just repair the nerve endings then, if you're so afraid that they've been burnt out?"

"The same reason we don't have potions that can heal wounds from Dark Magic or grant eternal life. Being able to manipulate and regenerated nerve strands is a recent, and it must be said, a remarkable breakthrough in the field of Healing. Any other questions?"

Harry shook his head. "Let's do it."

Uncorking the vial, Spleen brought it to his lips, delicately tipping it. "Just one swallow will suffice."

One or a hundred, he couldn't tell the fucking difference. He took the Healer at his word, going through the motion of swallowing, despite feeling none of it.

"How long is it supposed to take?" wondered Harry, after a few moments of silence passed, during which he felt no miraculous stirring of the senses. Just the same numb ocean he awoke in.

"Not much longer," Spleen answered slowly, without the surefire confidence accompanying most of his statements. "It should absorb into the bloodstream quickly, then using the blood as a carrier, rebuilding the nerves as it travels."

Without warning, it began.

One moment there was nothing, the next there was agony, radiating out from his chest as if a burning brand had been pressed against it. For a brief moment he welcomed the pain home like a lover, a needed respite from his sensory depravation, but the partial second passed quickly, ending in torment. He bucked on the bed, grasping at the sheets, eyes clenched tight.

"Are you okay?"

"No," spat Harry, his eyes flying open as the pain spread outwards in all direction. Spleen was in motion before the words were spoken, picking up the yellow vial and uncorking it. In the small slice of time, the knives and hooks had spread their play out to his arms and stomach, hacking with reckless abandon.

Through the soul-wrenching torture, Harry let out a bitter cackle. Had he really thought agony preferable to oblivion? How could he have forgotten so fucking easily? He had endured an eternity of torment down in the dark dungeon, and now was looking for a doorway back into it?

How much of Harry Potter had been left down in the darkened depths? Who had emerged?

"Harry, open your mouth!" yelled a faraway voice as Harry sunk into darkness. The fire was burning through him, consuming him, and it was dark, and his arms were chained to the ceiling, forcing him to his tiptoes. In the darkness, a pale, glowing face appeared, with deep purple eyes that danced with equal parts humor and psychosis. The gaze fell upon him, and so did her wand, and a pink tongue flicked out from between pearly-white, perfect teeth and ran along luscious red lips and she was raising the wand and he was so fucking hard and as the fire burned him to cinder she drew closer and her lithe form was pressed up against him and she was forcing his mouth open and her tongue forcing its way into his mouth and he was surrendering because he was hers to fuck to maim to sever to kill but it all felt so good-

Darkness and memory parted slowly, the light streaming back, and he was back in Percy's old bedroom, at the Burrow. Like a spigot turned off, the pain fled, leaving Harry shaking and sweating, but once again mercifully numb.

"Harry, I'm so sorry," apologized the Healer, placing a comforting hand on his arm. A gesture he only perceived due to seeing it actually occur.

"Lot of fucking good that did!" he snapped, ripping his arm away from the Healer. Maybe he had escaped Malfoy Manor, but he was still imprisoned. "Either agony or nothing!"

"I'm-"

"Through here!" interrupted Harry, his mood black. "Get out!"

Spleen got up wordlessly, sending an unreadable look in his direction, before exiting the room. Two nearly full vials, one containing the Nerve Repair Potion, the other a yellow liquid, were left behind on the dresser.

Now he resided in a different type of hell, his own body the jailer.

X-X-X-X-X-X -|- X-X-X-X-X-X -|- X-X-X-X-X-X

_He was suspended in the familiar dark. The rusting manacles bit into the tender flesh of his wrists, keeping his arms suspended. Cramps pulled at his muscles, unable to fully stretch out. His bare feet stung from the bare contact with the cold, damp concrete floor, aching like a rotted tooth. _

_And Harry couldn't be happier about any of the torment. _

_It had all been a dream. His awakening at the Burrow, where he was alone, surrounded by strangers had just been a delusion. A cruel hallucination where his life had been reduced to a hollow shell of humanity, unable to feel, with no hope of restoration. _

"_Of course it was," declared a sultry, mocking voice from the shadows. "Did you really think I'd let them take my favorite plaything, Baby Potter?"_

_A faint light bereft of source began to fill the room, banishing the deepest pools of darkness. As they departed, she came into view. _

_Like a cruel, avenging angel she stood before him, flawless, alabaster skin shining. Red lips stretched out into a predatory, hungry smile. Violet eyes drank in his body, moving up and down. She wore a thin silk robe, displaying the proud outlines of luscious curves and the twin hardened ridges of her nipples. _

"_I told you before, Potter; you're mine," Bellatrix Lestrange whispered, moving closer to him. He moaned as the tips of her cleavage pressed against his chest, the material of her robe so thin it was almost non-existent. Her soft breath against his neck, she reached up and caressed the side of his face. He shivered as Lestrange ran her nails lightly down his cheek. His hardening length strained from his tattered breeches, pushing against the soft juncture between her thighs. She was so warm down there, radiating heat through the negligee. _

"_Mind," she whispered, before pulling open his shirt and placing a palm upon his bare chest. "Heart."_

_The organ in question thrummed violently beneath her touch, as if it might explode. Her mouth left his ear, trailing kisses along the path to his mouth. Her hand drifted downward, trailing down the taut muscles of his abdomen and into his trousers. He gasped as she gave his cock a healthy squeeze._

"_Body," she whispered, capturing his gaze with hers. Violet eyes burned with lust as she pressed her forehead against his. "Mind, heart and body, Baby Potter, I own you. Say it."_

"_Mind, heart and body," Harry gasped as she made a fist around him and began to slowly move it back and forth. Surrender came as easily as breathing. "I am yours."_

_At his oath, she pressed her soft lips to his. Harry leaned into it greedily, deepening the kiss as her tongue sought entrance, dancing and entwining with his own. She tasted like midnight and saffron, a dark intoxication. _

_As he strained against his bonds, her hands were in motion. Without breaking the kiss, she withdrew from his trousers and pulled them down. Harry let out a piteous whine at the loss of contact, before she hiked up her robes with one hand, the other guiding him towards her sexual core. In moments he was within her, letting out a shuddering gasp as he penetrated her warm, sopping wet walls. Her moans joined his, echoing off the narrow walls, filling the space with a symphony of their ecstasy. _

_At last, he was back where he belonged._

X-X-X-X-X-X -|- X-X-X-X-X-X -|- X-X-X-X-X-X

"Bloody hell!" swore Harry, trapped within the shirt he was trying to wrestle onto his body. His right arm had slipped through the hole without much fanfare, but his left arm had proven far more stubborn.

Getting dressed was now on the quickly growing list of tasks made really fucking difficult without touch.

With a grunt of effort and a final curse, he slipped his arm through and pulled it completely onto his chest.

"This is fucking ridiculous," he whispered under his breath, before making his way unsteadily towards the bedroom door. On his way out, he sent a dark glare towards the twin vials lying on the dresser. Their presence was a mockery; a constant reminder of how truly awful his situation was.

Sure, Spleen had mentioned that there were alternatives, but the Healer probably didn't have much faith in them if he chose to use a borderline experimental potion as the first option. At least in his dreams he still felt something.

Harry tried to banish the traitorous thought, but it was like trying to hold back the tide. It was infuriating; while during the day he held only hatred towards Bellatrix for all that she had done to him, his nocturnal, dreaming self felt otherwise. Like he was a stranger in his dreams, with no thought in his head for recent history, only the all-encompassing hunger for…her. If these were the desires his unconscious mind conjured then how truly mentally fucked-up had he become?

Shaking his head Harry began to descend the twisting staircase with the care of a centurion performing the same exact task. He held no fear of falling; there was only the pragmatic truth that even the slightest misstep would be difficult to correct.

He stopped at the first-floor landing, holding onto the bannister tightly. Practice might make improve his movements down the stairs, but if the first two descents were any indication, it was always going to be a pain in the arse.

Hearing a door opening off to his left, Harry glanced to see Ginny from her bedroom, red hair tousled by sleep, clad in green pajamas and fluffy pink slippers in the shape of dragons. The youngest Weasley froze for a moment, before regaining her composure. He caught a quick glimpse of a small room with a writing desk placed at the window overlooking the orchard, before she closed the door behind her.

"Good morning," she said, before moving towards him. Harry grunted a noncommittal reply before turning back towards the stairs and continuing his descent. At once Ginny was beside him.

"Let me help," she urged, slipping an arm around his waist.

"No, I'm fine," Harry said firmly. "Let go of me."

He supposed it was nice she wanted to help, but he had no patience to be treated as an infirm. It made him feel too helpless, worthless even.

She removed her arm and took a step back, putting her hands on her small waist as she cocked her head slightly.

"Hermione and Ron told me what happened," she said after a moment's deliberation. "I know we can't understand what you're going through…but we do want to help, Harry."

"Then let me learn how to do this," Harry shot back. Contrary to popular belief, he was not a china doll. "You know the Levitation Charm, right?"

With an un-ladylike snort, Ginny withdrew her wand. "Please, give me some credit."

"Then use it if I fall down the stairs," said Harry, before resuming the twisting path downward. As he moved he heard Ginny follow behind him, like a ginger shadow. He feared that she would maintain a steady stream of chatter, but Ginny was mercifully silent as he made his way downwards into the smell of frying bacon.

Only Mr. and Mrs. Weasley appeared to be awake. The former sat at the small, scrubbed table with the Daily Prophet and a steaming mug of coffee, while the latter stood in front of the stove, her back to the stairs. At the approaching footsteps, she turned away from the wide iron frying pan, a wooden spatula held in her right hand.

"It's about time someone finally-"

Her words turned into a gasp of mingled surprise and fear at the sight of Harry. Mrs. Weasley let go of the spatula and clutched at her chest. The wooden instrument clattered to the floor, drops of bacon fat still clinging to it.

Mr. Weasley looked up at the commotion and rose from his seat, leaving the paper spread upon the table. "Good morning Harry, Ginny," he greeted, before motioning to the table. "Please, have a seat."

As he spoke he moved over to the cramped cooking area, deftly picking up the spatula and giving his wife a quick peck on the cheek. "We were just saying that we should up a plate for Harry, weren't we Molly?"

At her husband's words the wide-eyed, shocked look slowly drained away. "Why…why yes, we were. You should have stayed upstairs, dear…you could have hurt yourself on those stairs."

Resisting the urge to snort at Mrs. Weasley's poor recovery attempt he took a seat at the table.

"Percy's old room is fine, but I've spent too much time up there. Besides, I had Ginny there in case I fell."

"Well…I suppose that's fine then," the Weasley family matriarch finished lamely, turning back to the stove. Mr. Weasley made his way back to the table, neatly folding the paper as he joined Harry and Ginny.

"We're pleased to have you back with us, Harry," said the middle-aged father, before taking a small sip of coffee. "It doesn't feel like a proper summer without you here with us."

Harry shrugged. "I wish I could have been here sooner."

"Us too," replied Mr. Weasley with a pensive note to his voice. Harry had no doubt that the Weasleys would have accepted him into their home straight from King Crossing at the conclusion of his fifth year at Hogwarts, but instead Dumbledore had sent him back to Privet Drive. So far, four people had died from the spiraling effects of that one bad decision, and as for himself…well, the jury was still out.

After a few moments of awkward silence, Mrs. Weasley carefully set a plate before him, stacked high with bacon and kippers. She moved slowly, as if feeding a dog that could snap at any moment.

"Enjoy, dear," she said quickly, before retreating to the sanctuary the other side of the kitchen provided. Ginny and her father exchanged a wary glance, but Harry ignored them, digging into his breakfast. He had been looking forward to his first meal since escaping captivity.

As with almost everything else as of late, it proved a disappointment.

Harry still smelled the crisp bacon and fried potatoes that he ate, but received no sensory input from his taste buds. Along with not being able to feel the food being chewed within his mouth, it all began to meld into a boring mechanical process, where each piece was chewed past the point of reason to prevent choking.

The table in front of him steadily grew morsels of food, combined between food falling from his open mouth and the pieces that just plain missed his maw. He was trying to keep his mouth closed as he chewed, but his attempts were clearly not one-hundred percent successful.

"Sorry" Harry sullenly apologized to the other two people seated at the table. They seemed more than understanding of his plight, but the indignity of it all stung at Harry. More and more he felt like a helpless toddler. Perhaps during the next meal they could fit him with a fucking bib?

As his plate emptied out equally between the table, his mouth and his shirt, Mr. Weasley rose from the table and went over to his wife. She bid him farewell with a tight embrace and long kiss, before sending him on his way. Leaving Mrs. Weasley, he stopped back at the table.

"Harry, I'm sorry to bother you in the middle of breakfast, but would you mind walking me out?"

He shook his head in response, rising from the table. He had no idea whether he was full enough, but had received his fill of embarrassment for the morning. Mr. Weasley bent down and hugged his daughter, planting a kiss on the crown of her frizzed red hair, before following Harry out into the bright early morning sunshine. Wordlessly he drew his wand and cast a Cleansing Charm over the accumulated bits of food and grease congealing on the front of Harry's shirt.

"Thanks," he said. It wasn't as thorough as a full wash, but a vast improvement.

"You are very welcome," replied the Weasley patriarch, before running a hand through his thinning red hair, a familiar nervous gesture. "Harry, I-"

"Look, whatever it is, just ask it," urged Harry, his patience short. He had an inkling that Mr. Weasley was uncomfortable with the question he needed to ask, but was pushing ahead despite his reservations. Why delay the inevitable?

"A meeting of the Order of the Phoenix is happening here, tonight. Dumbledore…he wishes for you to be present during it."

Harry stood in silence at Mr. Weasley's words. Was that the way of things? Dumbledore would intentionally leave him in the dark, but open up in front of the full contingent of the Order?

"If he needs me to sing and dance he's going to be really disappointed," he sourly answered, drawing a wince from Mr. Weasley.

"Please, don't think that you're obligated to do this. We would all understand if you were uncomfortable with the situation, and would not blame you if-"

"I'll do it," pledged Harry, cutting him off.

"Are you sure?" asked Mr. Weasley, his eyes filled with concern. "Several of the topics might be upsetting-"

"I said I'd to it," he snapped. "You can tell Dumbledore that I'll be a good little boy, that I'll smile and sit there like he wants, but afterwards we are going to have a discussion."

His miniature diatribe left Mr. Weasley at a temporary loss for words.

"Uh, very well then," finally decided upon, his expression almost pained. He clearly liked the set of circumstances no better than Harry, but nonetheless carried out the task Dumbledore had no doubt set before him. He said his final farewells to Harry, before apparating away with a loud crack.

Alone again, Harry turned back towards the Burrow. There was no fucking way that he wanted to sit down for the Order meeting and have its members gawk at him like some strange, exotic animal, but he thought that Dumbledore might be more forthcoming with answers if he did as the Headmaster wished. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but the most effective medicine usually was.

Poison thoughts swirling in his head, Harry went back into the kitchen. Ron and Hermione had joined Ginny at the table, and the youngest Weasley brother was enthusiastically attacking a serving platter of food. He greeted Harry through a mouthful of food, drawing a hard elbow from Hermione.

"Good morning Harry," said his Muggleborn friend, after sending a scathing look in Ron's direction. The recipient of the glare swallowed heavily.

"Yeah, g' morning," Ron said, his mouth still partially full, which he cleared with his second swallow. "Sorry about that."

Harry made an inarticulate, carless wave. As scandalized as Hermione seemed to be, Harry couldn't care less about Ron's matters. So he took big bites? Who fucking cared?

The other three teenagers seated at his table began to talk, sometimes making attempts to include him, but he could barely follow their conversation. His thoughts were still occupied with the Order meeting tonight. Had it been a mistake to agree to it? Was he yielding too much to Dumbledore?

The Headmaster has been fucking him over from day one, when he arrived at Number Four Privet Drive, and had continued that grand tradition all the way up to his marvelous decision to send Harry back to his aunt and uncle's following his fifth year. And now he was going along with Dumbledore's plans, in the hopes that maybe the Headmaster just might part with some information that was his by right?

Unfelt, his hands clenched into fists. Fuck that. As soon as he woke up, he should have demanded to see Dumbledore, to demand an answer to every one of the Headmaster's numerous failures. It should have been-

Without warning, the familiar agony began to radiate outwards. With a gasp he tumbled from the chair, landing heavily upon the floor. Liquid fire coursed through his veins, setting his flesh and organs alight.

"Harry, are you okay?!" yelled Ginny, reacting the quickest as she dropped to her knees beside him.

"Y-yell-low p-p-potion, d-dresssssser," gasped Harry, before letting out a tormented groan and flopping on the ground like a fish dropped upon the deck of a ship. What the fuck was going?

Rational thought fled as Harry thrashed on the ground. His vision faded to crimson as torment became his world, all he knew.

"Here, Harry!" yelled a voice, from far away. A dim part of himself swallowed, using the last remnants of his conscious thought. At once the tide of torture receded, leaving him gasping on the floor. Ron stood over him, vial in hand, flanked by Hermione and Ginny.

"Blimey, Harry! What the bloody hell was all that?"

"I don't know," Harry wearily answered, rising to a sitting position. Why had the pain returned? Was there a limited time cycle to the nerve-blocking potion?

Or worse yet, was it losing its effectiveness?

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The kitchen filled slowly, each guest staggering their appearance.

Mrs. Weasley bustled about, busying herself with brewing tea and baking. The smell of fresh-baked biscuits drifted through the room, filling the cozy space with its homely aroma. She hummed beneath her breath, but her movements possessed a jerking, stuttering quality to them, and seemed to flinch whenever Harry turned his gaze over in her direction.

He sat at the end of the small table, his back to the wall. Ron and Hermione flanked him on either side, offering moral support. Not that he needed it, but they had been insistent upon attending, despite not truly being members of the Order of the Phoenix.

Emmeline Vance and Elphias Doge were the first to arrive, taking seats at the small table. She inclined her stately head, wrapped in an emerald-green shawl, towards him, but offered no other comment. Elphias was far more forthright, shaking Harry's hand a single time, before offering Harry his congratulations in between hacking coughs. Harry didn't know what he had done to deserve any praise, but accepted it nonetheless.

Dedalus Diggle and Hestia Jones were next. Diggle let out an excited squeak at seeing Harry, rushing up to him and pumping his hand enthusiastically, sending his violet top-hat tottering perilously. Hesita was far more reserved, and settled for wishing him a speedy recovery.

Mad-Eye came by himself. He sent noncommittal grunts towards the greetings sent his way, before making his way over to Harry.

"I'm proud of you, Potter," rasped the former Auror, his electric-blue eye spinning in its socket. "It's not many people that could endure what you did, and live to tell the tale."

He clapped Harry on the shoulder once, before making his way to the corner of the kitchen. He took up real-estate against the wall, leaning against it as the fake eye whirred and spun.

An unknown, yet slightly familiar witch with ashen features and mousy, listless brown hair walked in next. She glanced at Harry once, before quickly retreating away and hiding in another corner, as if she wished to stay unseen. Oddly, Moody's real eye narrowed at her appearance, tracking the witch as she walked. She seemed to be aware of it, swallowing nervously as she looked at the floor, playing with her hands.

"Who's that?" Harry whispered to Hermione, leaning back so that the sound wouldn't travel.

"I don't know," the Muggleborn witch answered. "I think I know her though – but from where?"

Harry shook his head, understanding Hermione's frustration. He felt like he should know, like a word on the tip of his tongue, but just couldn't place her. Was she a new member of the Order? And if so, why did she look like she wanted to disappear?

Kingsley Shacklebolt and Arthur Weasley arrived next, the former still dressed in his crimson Auror robes. Mr. Weasley greeted Harry warmly, before going over to give his wife a quick peck on the lips. Shacklebolt shook Harry's hand, saying it was good to have him back, before taking another of the dwindling seats at the table.

Dumbledore was the last to arrive.

The quiet conversation and conspiratorial whispers faded away as the Headmaster of Hogwarts swept into the room, dressed in midnight-blue robes adorned with yellow stars and moons. He took the last remaining seat at the scrubbed wooden table, directly across from Harry.

Anger flared within him at the sight of the calm, blue eyes hiding behind half-moon spectacles. He had so many questions, and ever since Harry's arrival at the Burrow, he had seen nothing of the Headmaster? Why was he avoiding him?

"Friends and allies, thank you for coming here on such short notice," began Dumbledore, his tired gaze moving about the room. "And thank you to the Weasleys for accommodating us as well."

Looking around the room, he saw movement in the far corner, near the ceiling. Through a small, almost invisible hole in the ceiling, from the direction of Ginny's room, an Extendable Ear was being fed. As soon as Harry saw it, Dumbledore raised his wand into the air, waving it over his head. If he were capable of touch, Harry assumed that he would have felt dense waves of magic wash through the room as the Privacy Charm cloaked their conversation from the Aurors patrolling the perimeter of the Burrow.

As it were, he felt nothing.

"Now that we are freed from any unwanted eavesdropping, please join me in welcoming Harry Potter back."

The wizened wizard began to clap his large, gnarled hands together, the movements being quickly picked up by the rest of the room. He saw Ron slap him on the back, grinning wide, before resuming clapping. Mrs. Weasley openly wept but still managed to put her hands together, leaning against her husband.

As the crescendo of striking flesh faded away Dumbledore began to speak again.

"Great odds faced our champion, but yet again Harry has proven equal to the best of Voldemort's efforts. His miraculous return has given rise to an entirely unforeseen set of circumstances. An opportunity, if you will; one that we cannot afford to throw away."

All around the room people leaned forward, like flowers towards the sun.

"Since the Department of Mysteries, Voldemort has been met with a multitude of failures, starting with revealing himself to Cornelius Fudge, shredding the shroud of secrecy and doubt that accompanied his resurrection. And your escape, Harry," said the Headmaster, turning his blue-eyed gaze towards his student, "has given the Death-Eaters reason to doubt their master. That is now three times that he has had the opportunity to strike you down, once and for all, and each time he has not. His power is being devalued as we speak. Now is the time for action."

Silence accompanied Dumbledore's words, allowing for their magnitude to fully register. As far as Harry had known, the Order of the Phoenix had always been a defensive organization, concerned with thwarting Voldemort's plans rather than a direct offensive against him and his followers. Had Dumbledore decided to change tactics?

"We must being to recruit from their ranks, now that the seed of doubt has begun to flower. Any Death-Eater that wishes to defect from Voldemort's ranks must be offered protection and sanctuary."

"That's an offer that could create severe security risks," Mad-Eye pointed out.

"We do not require their service – only their inaction. Every servant that Voldemort loses from his ranks is one less enemy to contend with. You may seem that at the Ministry, at Diagon Alley, perhaps even at the Three Broomsticks. They are weary, they are scared, and they are wondering if perhaps there is an alternative to the life of servitude that is required by the Dark Lord. Show them that there is another way; that things can be different. I urge it of each and every one of you."

His bright gaze swept around the room, as if judging each member in turn. They shuffled uncomfortably under the gaze, as if students asked a difficult question during class, but once the gaze moved on, determination filled the brief relief.

Albus Dumbledore would never hand out to punishments for failures within the Order, as Voldemort took no exception to doing so with his Death Eaters, but there was no question the Headmaster held the same sway over his followers. Disappointment and expectation was his primary arsenal among his followers, just as effective as a Cruciatus in the proper hands. After all, who would want to let down the great Dumbledore, the so-called Champion of the Light'?

His agenda set, Dumbledore dismissed the Order. They shuffled out of the kitchen, nodding to Harry and sending him their fondest wishes, but he couldn't help but feel that something was off. In the wake of the Headmaster's rousing words, he would have expected optimism from the assembled witches and wizards, but a shadow hid behind their eyes. A heavy dread hung heavy in the air, like an early morning fog. Whatever unseen menace lurked just out of sight, beneath every smile and laugh that lasted just a little too long, its time was near.

"Do you want us to stay?" whispered Hermione, leaning towards him.

"What? Why would we leave?" Ron asked, completely flummoxed by the question.

"There are things that Dumbledore and myself need to talk about alone," Harry answered after a moment of thought. The Headmaster might be tempted to guard his answers slightly if his friends were around, which was not what Harry had in mind.

"We understand," the young witch said, before placing a hand he couldn't feel on his shoulder. She sent an encouraging smile towards him, before leading Ron out of the kitchen and up the stairs. At their departure, only four people remained in the small space.

Harry stared at Dumbledore, before moving his gaze to Mad-Eye, who had made no attempt to get up. Beyond the scarred former Auror, in the far corner, the mysterious witch remained. Why was she still here?

"I'm telling you, I don't like this," said Moody, shaking his head. "Voldemort will anticipate this move. He knows that he's losing cache, and he must have something huge planned to save face. We do not have the resources we once had, Albus. Can we prevent his next attack if we have to worry about babysitting Death Eaters and their families?"

"We must," Dumbledore replied, "because it is the only option which remains to us."

"If you say so," the grizzled Auror relented, before rising ponderously to his feet. "Albus, Harry."

He inclined his head towards both of them, ignoring the witch in the corner before taking his leave through the back door. An uncomfortable, brief silence settled over the kitchen as the three remaining participants in the Order meeting were left to their privacy. Or, veneer of privacy.

His glance moved to the Extendable Ear, still hanging down from the ceiling. He considered destroying the Extendable Ear, before discarding the notion. Whatever Dumbledore had to say, he wanted privacy for it. Adding an unforeseen variable into the Headmaster's plan gave Harry a sort of perverse, petty pleasure.

At the other side of the table, Dumbledore lightly took of his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose with his other hand.

"I fear that as of late our relationship has comprised solely of pleads for forgiveness and apologies on my end, and rage and disappointment on yours."

"Well how I am supposed to feel?" asked Harry with an angry, dismissive shrug.

"I did not say your responses were unjustified, only that it is unfortunate that I have failed you so often as to create animosity between us."

Harry did not go out of his way to deny Dumbledore's claim.

"Sometimes, down in the darkness of Malfoy Manor, I hated you just as much as Bellatrix, or any other of the Death Eaters. Voldemort's been trying to kill me since I was an infant; I understand why he keeps trying. But you…"

In the corner, Harry saw the unfamiliar young woman bury her head in her hands, sobbing quietly. Almost satisfied with the reaction, he continued on.

"But what's your excuse, Dumbledore? The Dursleys, the Defense instructors who usually try to kill me before end of term, the lies, the half-truths, the information you hide from me…if I am what you think I am, why are you trying to do Voldemort's work for him?"

"I deserve every ounce of your skepticism," the Headmaster conceded with a deep sigh, his blue eyes dim with sorrow, "and am grateful that you even consented to sit down for the Order meeting. You have my deepest thanks."

Harry shrugged. "If I didn't, you might not have answered any of my questions."

"Yet again, my good intentions go awry. I am sorry, Harry, but after undergoing such an ordeal, I thought that perhaps a quiet, unburdened recovery period surrounded by friends would do you well. It was never my intention to make you feel as if I was ignoring the many questions you doubtless had."

"Well, you can start now," said Harry, pointing his index finger at the woman standing in the corner. "Who the bloody hell is she, and why is she still here?"

At his words she froze, like a rabbit cornered by a predator.

"Please, join us," urged Dumbldore, extending a hand to one of the many empty seats at the table. The woman in question swallowed heavily, before approaching the table slowly, as if she was a criminal facing the hangman's noose. Head down, she took a seat as far as she could from Harry, while still leaving a seat between her and the Headmaster.

As Harry inspected her, he looked past the short, mousy brown hair and the deep frown, to the dark eyes that were not just filled with pain and sadness, but something else above them all, something he couldn't place. He saw the pale pallor of her skin, the delicate curve of her cheekbones – and all at once the pieces fell into place.

"Tonks?"

"Hi Harry," she whispered, her lips barely moving. All of the abundant life that had once flowed from her like a cloud, infecting all she came into contact with, was gone. She wouldn't even look at him.

Had he had it wrong the entire time? Was it Tonks, not Lupin, who had been assigned to watch over him at Privet Drive?

"Well, that answers half of my question," stated Harry, keeping his eyes locked on Tonks. "What about the other half; why is she here?"

Tonks seemed to deflate at his question, sinking deeper into the chair, as if hoping to disappear into it.

"Please excuse Miss Tonks, Harry," said Dumbledore. "Her mother, Andromeda, has been missing these past few weeks, and we fear that worst for her. Nymphodra has been…understandably distraught as of late."

He processed the Headmaster's statement in silence. There was truth to it, certainly; he knew for a fact that Andromeda was dead, having seen her dissolve into dust as Bellatrix's hands, but there was far more to the story than Dumbledore was letting on; Andromeda has even said as much. Her capture had been a calculated, intentional process to get her closer to Harry – but why? Andromeda had always been forthcoming on most matters, but when pressed about her motivation for infiltrating Malfoy Manor, she had always played coy.

"But you already know where she went," pointed out Harry, his voice cool. "She spent the night at Vance's place, for a 'witch's night', on the very same night an attack was planned."

Tonks' gaze shot upward at Harry's claim. Her mouth dropped open, and she shot a shocked look towards the Headmaster.

"It – it was all planned?!"

"It was," admitted a remorseful Dumbledore. "She only wished to atone for wrongs done. Your mother believed that if she could free Harry from captivity-"

"And you let her do it!" Tonks spat, her features contorted in anguish. "How could you?! She didn't have a chance!"

Harry supposed he should have been more accommodating to Tonks' emotional torment, but found he couldn't care less. He was sick of dancing around the core of the issue, and wanted answers.

"She sacrificed herself to get me out of there, but Bellatrix got in the way. Why? She never told me why it was so important to for her. Why was she willing to risk everything?"

At the confirmation that her mother was dead, Tonks buried her face in her hands and began to sob quietly. Dumbledore looked at her with pity, before moving his attention back to Harry.

"I have failed you many times, Harry, but each time you have found it in your heart to forgive me…however, I fear that this time may prove to be different. As always, I would urge you-"

Harry rose up from his seat, slamming his fists down on the table. "Quit stalling, Professor! Just say it! You bollocked it all up! There should have been Order members watching my aunt and uncle's house!"

"There were," stated Dumbledore, his tone as solemn as a funeral.

"Then where were they?" Harry demanded, throwing up his arms. "I didn't see anyone, and even Mrs. Figg was gone. She's just a squib; she wouldn't have been able to do anything if a Death Eater attacked her."

"Arabella Figg, along with all of her cats, has not been seen since the night of your abduction. We fear the worst. She was not the lone line of defense, however. I had rotating shifts of Order members watching the home, day and night, two sets of eyes. On that night, Miss Tonks and Remus Lupin were assigned to watch over you."

At the Headmaster's explanation, Harry shot his gaze over to Tonks, who looked like the perfect picture of misery, from the shame in her eyes to the tear tracks upon her cheeks and ashen color.

"So…what?" demanded Harry, still not seeing the whole picture. "Were you in the loo when Voldemort showed up on my doorstep, carrying the severed heads of my Aunt and Cousin? Were you sleeping when Voldemort shattered by broom in the air, and sent me falling to the street? What happened?!"

She cowered before each accusation, her sobs intensifying.

"I-I-I'm s-s-s s-sorry," she choked out.

"When I assigned them their duty for the night, I was unaware that there were tensions between the two parties," admitted Dumbledore, his tone sorrowful. "An argument turned into a spat, which led to Mr. Lupin storming off. Miss Tonks…regrettably chased after him."

Harry stood uncomprehending for a moment, his gaze moving between the Headmaster and Tonks. Was he saying…?

As the truth sunk in, Harry's mouth dropped open. All the torment, the torture, his unfixable physical handicap – it was all because of a lover's spat? Because Dumbledore failed to pay any iota of attention to not only the Order members assigned to guard duty, but how they worked together?

Carelessness, stupidity and incompetence. All from the one man that was supposed to be deliver Wizarding Britain from Voldemort. And he couldn't even fucking manage his small inner circle of followers?

An ocean of hate bloomed in Harry's heart, his veins carrying it to every part of his body. His blood boiled with it, his vision turning crimson. No more. No fucking more.

He kicked back against the chair behind him, sending it clattering to the floor. As Dumbledore sat, his heavily lined face a mask of misery, Harry made his drunken way to the fireplace, stumbling and using the wall for support. He couldn't think; the red was consuming him, obliterating all thought.

From the mantle of the fireplace he drew a handful of Floo powder, sending the pewter box containing it tumbling to the floor. As it clattered against the warped floor, scattering green dust across the hearth, Harry flung his own handful into the fireplace.

"Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place!"

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Author Notes:

Yes, the prison arc is finally complete, and now the person that Harry has become since the ordeal is starting to become more clear. I know it's a far cry from the canonical personality, but with the trauma he experienced, a new person was going to emerge on the other side.

My fourth update on this story is four years. Even by my standards that is terrible. All I can say is that my real-life situation is very much improving, and the next chapter will certainly not take two years to write, despite most likely being a 20k word behemoth.

Dumbledore's original plan was to have Harry acclimate to the world at the Burrow, but that's obviously all gone to hell. The next chapter will follow Harry and his development when left to his own devices, which is not to say the next chapter will be a solitary experience for our jaded protagonist.

I didn't have a beta work with me on this chapter, so it's probably loaded with mistakes. Each and every one is my fault.

As always, I vastly appreciate feedback. I may not always reply in a timely fashion, but I eventually catch up to each and every signed review I receive.

DLP Thanks:

T3t, Ando, psihary, Celestin, cerasuna, bombdiggity92, Pirazy, w1lliam, balin, trollolol, Swimdraconian, Mordart, Drisful, Tesla, AlbusPHomles, Deadros, 0jordinio0, Scott, Odram, jjack1003, Nargles


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